Audacity

Sometime over the break we visited Bennington and Funk. It was a great time, and I'm sad we don't get to see the two more. During the visit I had to use their restroom a couple of times, each time for more than just a minute or two. This gave me the opportunity to read their shiterature, among which was a 101 rules of writing style book. You know the kind: each page or so has another rule, each rule's a bit of wisdom or motivation to convince you, the reader, that you CAN write the Great American Novel burgeoning inside you.

I was skeptical. Not that these types of books don't offer help, it's just that the help they offer is usually used to placate rather than motivate, and really, I've heard it all before. This book, however, offered alternative takes on classic tips, sometimes refuting them. One of the tips I remember was about not writing at Starbucks. The folks who write at Starbucks want to be seen writing at Starbucks. Write somewhere where you can focus your energy into the page, not into looking cool.

He was a bit glib, but many of the things he had to say rang true to me and I hadn't heard them before. The piece of advice that stuck with me the most was this: don't talk about what you're working on. With anyone. When you get a new writing idea, it can be all encompassing. It can be the only thing you think about all week. It will fill your every idle thought. You can't wait to get started on it, except you've just got to figure one or two things out before jumping in.

So what do you do? You tell your friends. How, in this torrent of excitement, could you not? I know this, because I do this with every project I get worked up about. When someone asks "what's new?", it's the first thing that pops to mind. What the writer pointed out, and what I've found to be the truth, is that every time you talk about that idea, you're deflating it, letting the excitement go. That excitement, that pressing need, that's what's going to sustain you through the hard work of doing. Talking it out neuters the project, taking the urgency away, and allowing it to be postponed indefinitely.

It's in this spirit that I hadn't written here about my desire to write a novel. I mean, it's nothing new: I've entertained the idea of writing prose at novel length for years. This time, however, was different. I'd been sleeping, and I dreamed up a couple of fantastic characters, and when I woke up, I needed to (I do me need) write at least a couple scenes with them. I'd caught the flame of inspiration, and I didn't want to loose it this time, especially knowing now how precious it can be.

Problem is, I didn't feel ready to tackle something like this. I've tried writing stories before, and I found that I write characters and dialogue well, I set scenes up well, I can establish and draw out tension, but what I can't do is figure out what should happen next. Where should the story go? What should this tension resolve to? I don't handle the big picture well.

So I went to the library and took out as many books as I managed to find that might deal with plot or development, and I started reading them. Slowly, thanks to Fallout 3.

This book I'm reading, written in the 70's and from a very different point of view than modern "tap the inner artist inside us all" self helpers, starts with a list of qualities essential to have as a writer. Round about quality nine, they got to "Regularity and Capacity for Work: Pursuit of Excellence", which touched on the subject of finding, then taking, the time to write. This is what most books today start with, or touch on most heavily. I wasn't expecting to find anything new here.

Then I read the following:

Some publishers have been known to suggest that an author short of money "get a job" to finish a book. Some would-be writers go into the teaching profession, or editing, or journalism, thinking in this way to keep in touch with the subject in which they are most vitally interested. It won't work. Better to chop down trees, cook dinners, drive a taxi, or go hunting or fishing - anything with no carryover is safest, once you know where your true interest lies.

And it shook me. Not the kind of thing you want to feel right before bed. I know why I wanted to go to school: to study the craft of writing. I think it would greatly enrich my life. I feel the great need, however, to justify my actions in terms of potential utility, especially after majoring in Philosophy, then struggling to find work afterwords. There is plenty or ridicule out there for people studying the humanities, there always has been. It's impossible not to feel that pressure to lead a life that others call productive.

I think that's why, from the beginning, I imagined myself going into teaching, or editing, or managing a journal; something I could make a living from related to my interests. It's in this way that I imagined myself having the most potential for happiness and satisfaction while still being able to pay the rent. Access to these opportunities is the easiest to justify going to school. What I take away from that quote though is that, if writing is what I want to do, then I should seek to focus solely on that pursuit, and do whatever else I can necessary to survive. To get a job related to writing only provides a sense of security, that at least you're close enough to the world, that should you fail to write, that it's still some part of your life.

The alternative, however, runs counter to the common sense of our culture: to underachieve, do what you have to to get by when you're capable of more, so that your best can go to your writing. The question then falls to me: do I think I'm good enough to justify that kind of life? To what extent is it possible and practical in these times, and to what extent should that matter? Would I have the audacity to do so in the first place?