“You’re writing a book?” A young woman at the coffee shop nearly swoons. “Oh, I would love to write a book!”
“Love has nothing to do with it.” I scowl into my mocha.
Back home at my computer, I fight the invisible ropes that are winching me toward the vacuum cleaner, the garden, the refrigerator. I just finished breakfast, for God’s sake. I’m not hungry. Am I?
Eating would be better than writing. Anything would be better than writing.
Because I am inarticulate. Because my thoughts and words are hopelessly derivative. In fact, for the duration of my novel I should, for the sake of unintentional plagiarism, avoid reading anything that is beautifully crafted.
The phone rings. My hand shoots toward it, ignoring my earlier resolve not to take any calls until lunch break. It’s my father, wondering when my book will be finished. Finally I am able to hang up.
“Bill,” I yell to my sweet, uncomplaining husband, “I said I didn’t want to talk to anybody!”
“Honey, I was going to answer it but you beat me to it.”
I would throw my manuscript in the trash but I am in so deep I cannot withdraw. I have spent four years on this farce. I have written a thousand pages; shaved it down and blown it up and shaved it down again. The remaining three hundred pages are crap.
And I have told too many people that I am writing this book. With my love of drama and showmanship I have convinced them it will be a winner. They all ask about it, far too frequently for my comfort.
I must write this book, but I am a fraud. A couple of well-crafted paragraphs and thirty years of journaling, and I fell into the trap: I believed them when they told me I should write, that I have talent.
I set the timer. I will work for one hour on the chapter about my character’s struggle with existential grief. My protagonist must work through this cerebral logjam to solve the puzzle of her story. I close the door to my office.
Two hours later I am somewhat aware that the door is opening, but I am unable to answer my husband’s question. If I were to tear my eyes away from the computer screen I would barely recognize him, so deep am I in this story. My eyes are dry from unshed tears, and I have lost the ability to speak.
How the hell do I know what I want for lunch?
The real question is, where is the world in which I have lived for the past two hours? What does it mean that I have been so deeply immersed in it that it jars my sense of reality to find myself back in this room when in fact my body never left?
Where was I when the timer went off?
Am I mentally unwell? And how long has it been since I brushed my teeth?
“Whatever, I don’t care,” I tell him. “And shut the door. Please.”
I turn back to the screen. What’s love got to do with it?
I was feeling your pain. WOW! It was so in the moment. The isolation is so apparent and no one can give you a lifeline.
You’re on you’re own. Story was great, keep up the good work.
Vicki
Lynne,
You could write a book… about writing a book..the agony part that is so real and that you describe soooo well. Sometimes I think it is like an initiation rite into some primitive culture. Hang in there..a great breakthrough is in sight, just around the corner..
Kathy
Thanks for the comment, Kathy. It IS kind of like a primitive rite, or maybe more like a Darwinian weeding-out process. We will survive!!!!
Hahaha! Lynnne, this post just hit the nail on the head. It’s nice to know that others struggle with the same issues. My confidence has been through a roller-coaster ride this week. I think it’s the weather. Fortunately for me, I am naturally secretive, so almost no one knows I’m working on a novel; and the few that do know about it, know better than to ask. =)
Laura, you’re so smart about the secretive thing. Of course, then you don’t have the motivation of hordes of potentially disappointed friends and family torturing you into succeeding, either!
Debbie, somebody told me recently that instead of spewing about our writing, we’re better off saying we’re bus drivers or something. I’ve also found – and I’ve seen this a lot of places – that once you tell people about your writing or your idea, it loses some momentum, so to keep quiet about it as a way of protecting your energy. Thanks for the comment. (And apologies to bus drivers everywhere.)
Omigosh, we MUST be related!! I’ve been working on my novel for years, too, and periodically wrestle with the same back-and-forth dilemma — is it good, is it crap? — but I’ve been “living” in my protagonist’s world for so long that I refuse to quit until I learn how it’s all going to turn out! I’ve not been as forthright as you, tho, when it comes to announcing to others that I’m writing a book — thankfully! The ones I have told are pestering me too often with their eager and well-intentioned, “When are you going to be finished? When can I read it?”
Just beautiful! I can relate to this jarring anxiety so well. “I am a fraud.” Those words have passed through my mind, too! But then you do realize that you must have something good if you could become so immersed in your story, with no sense of time passing or the world around you. This is a beautiful piece of writing! You are definitely not a fraud.
Thanks so much for your comment, Libbye. Helps to know we’re in it together!
I love your post.
That’s how it is.
You write and write and write and feel so good after having written and then you hit a wall and you see all that writing, so far, is crap; or fluff; or trivia; or drivel. So you quit.
You wait a week or so.Then you read what you have written, and decide it’s brilliant. “I wrote this?” you say. “I’m damn good.” And you continue.
Then you hit a wall and you see that all, so far, is crap. Etc. Etc. Etc.
Margie, your post made me laugh. Yup, that’s how it is!