[I don’t know how many entries this will become…maybe three? While I don’t get too personal on the blog, for some reason, I feel compelled to write this.
So I am.]
* * *
Somewhere around 20, I traded one obsession for another.
When I was 12 I taught myself how to juggle. I wasn’t content just knowing how to juggle — I wanted to be a good juggler. It wasn’t that I had to be the best juggler in the world, but I had to be the best juggler I could be…no matter what it took.
The standards I held for myself were ridiculously high, and I have no doubt that had I not swapped obsessions, I’d be paying my bills as a juggler today.
Juggling is a funny thing. When people hear that I juggle, they often say they’ve tried juggling and failed — or that they just know they could never do it, so why even try? Strange, then, that when it comes to writing, so many people think they can do it.
It’s at least easier than juggling, right?
Juggling Writing
I always wrote stories. I was the kid who kept a journal. I tried writing movies before I ever saw a screenplay. Despite that, I didn’t really look at writing as a thing I’d try doing professionally until I was about 20. It became bigger than juggling soon after. I still juggled (still do), but I let the hours I juggled become the hours I wrote. Along the way, I found that writing well was much harder than juggling well. One obsession (juggling) was traded for the other (writing). And I became obsessed to the point of losing things:
- “I’d love to go to that party, but I have other plans…”
- “I can’t work overtime because I have other plans…”
- “I’ll take care of my health later; I have other plans…”
The other plans were writing…all the time, as much as I could.
I resented my day job because it took time away from writing. I slept 3-4 hours a night because it gave me more time to write. I put off so many other things in order to write as much as I could. It was a race I had to win.
And I had a plan…
My Old [Dramatic] Plan
Twenty years.
That’s what I’d give myself: twenty years.
I’d be writing full time by the time I was 40. If not, I’d give up. (After all, twenty years was a lifetime…at least a lifetime when I was twenty.)
And to be clear about what I mean by “give up,” I mean I planned to give up my life. (Because what better way to prove you’re serious about writing than to give yourself 20 years to make it, and end your life if you don’t?)
(And yes, I realize how stupid that plan was. If you’re interested about the entry I wrote about my struggles with depression, it’s right here.)
For me, writing was all or nothing!
A Simple, Stupid Plan
My 20-year plan was a stupid plan. Not so much because it meant that I was so into writing that I’d put such high stakes on it, but because I put my life in the hands of others.
In the 20 year race to writing success, I had some close calls…the kinds of close calls some people only dream of having. But because I was so hellbent on making it in 20 years, instead of seeing those close calls as a sign I was good enough to make it, all I saw was the clock ticking down.
As I neared 40, I still didn’t regret the times I put off other things in order to write (even today, I’m not sure I’d call that obsession regret) — I regretted that I was coming up to my biggest deadline ever!
All it did was make me depressed.
Tick Tock…
My favorite quote is from the Tennessee Williams’s essay, “The Catastrophe of Success.” It ends with the following lines:
“‘In the time of your life, live!’ That time is short and it doesn’t return again. It is slipping away while I write this and while you read this, and the monosyllable of the clock is loss, loss, loss, unless you devote your heart to its opposition.
Only problem in my case: I had convinced myself by the very act of writing that I was devoting my heart to the opposition of time stealing precious seconds from my life. If I fight to justify my obsession, I can still make the argument.
Only I now know how wrong I was…
[Tomorrow: Part 2]
I think of you as not ever getting over 38- in the best possible way. I also believe you’re a fabulous writer with a wellspring of stories. So deadline or not, you’re gonna make it. 🙂
I think writing well (or doing anything well) requires a measure of selfishness. As you point out, you can’t do this or that because you must write. Others won’t understand, or will only grudgingly understand, but they’re not important.
When I first publicly announced that I was trying to write (I don’t announce it any more — too much “advice” comes my way) I was cautioned by people who didn’t know much about the thing that it would take at least 10 years of effort to “make it.” They said it in a tone that suggested nothing was worth that kind of deferral and wouldn’t I be better off being an office drone?
Making it, being a success, whatever the definition varies for each person, and I know, for me at least, it changes over time. Am I a published novelist? Not yet. Can I pay my bills with my writing? Not yet. (Nor might I want to since I might get resentful about it.) Am I writing better stories than ever, feeling more practiced in my skill, finding myself in a groove, even seeing myself published a bit? Yes. Then maybe I’m making it.
CMS: Why thank ya! Later this month, I’m three years past that goofy deadline, and it’s been the best three years of writing ever! In the year following the “deadline,” I finished the novel that I always aspired to write. And I had one of those close calls that lets me know I’m on the right path to what I dreamed of. In November, I started what’s fast becoming my favorite writing thing ever (even though I set it aside for a novella that was my previous favorite writing thing ever). Even at 90, I have to think I’ll still be my big, goofy self. I know there are those who say that a writer’s best work comes when they are younger and full of passion. And they might have a point in ways. For me, it means trying to keep what I felt when I was younger when I sat down to write. And I think I’ve kept that feeling, although it’s backed up with a lot more experience and control.
My best writing is still in front of me, and that’s a damn good feeling!
Paul: The bit about people telling you it would take at least 10 years to make it is interesting. I’m not sure I ever had anybody say that to me. I read interviews with writers who talked about how long it takes, but when people found out that I wrote (even today), they usually go to, “I’d love to be a writer/I plan to write a book one day.” (Which is why I loved Ann Pratchett’s The Getaway Car so much…she makes some great points about those who think it’s as easy as one day just doing it.)
The bits of writing of yours that I’ve read…I’d say you’re making it. There’s a confidence in your tone and ability that keep me interested in parts where others who haven’t put in as much effort might lose me. The sense of place without flowery prose; the overall command you have in the things I’ve read may not come easy for you, but as a reader, it comes across like words just fall from your head and BOOM! there’s a story.
My view of making it, naturally, has changed over the years. It’s not that I expected to be a rich writer at 40, but the goal was obviously to pay the bills by writing fiction. As a technical writer, I am an office drone. And while it’s a good job, I work more days than not in the hope that I will not always be an office drone. It’s interesting the reactions of others at work regarding the writing that I do: people either think it’s very cool, or they almost seem angry about it. I’ve had coworkers who saw it almost as a slap in the face that I wanted something more than just coming into an office where I’ll probably be laid off in a handful of years. (I’ve been through 7 layoffs in my time.) I have a pretty high tolerance for BS, so I can suck up most jobs and work them with the intent of being there until I make it writing or until retirement or the day I can work no more for some reason. But jobs end these days, so I strive for something more.
Those people who offer unsolicited advice about writing or believe one is better off being an office drone are usually some of the sadder people I’ve known. I’m at least lucky to work around people who think it’s cool that I write other things, or don’t even know I write other things. While my experience has generally been good about those who find out I write novels and other things, when I’ve encountered those who have issues with it, it makes the day job a miserable place to be.
You’re welcome!
I find that I become more passionate about life in general with each year, and that it spills into my writing. In my teens and 20s I kind of drifted along, rather lost. Now I have more of a sense of myself. Ah, the life of a contrarian.