Why We Write

You know, I enjoy browsing the community of creative writers. Well, you know, some parts. I like to hear the stories and worries and successes of writers I like, and even writers I don't, or don't know. Then occasionally I'll read something like this article in the Huffington Post by J.J. Colagrande, "The Agony of Creative Writing". And I just can't help but roll my eyes.

Because it's not that it's not true. A writer's life is more than nine times out of ten not the most profitable one in the world. And yes it can be incredibly difficult to find your audience. But... duh? I feel like I've read this exact article dozens of times before. There are more readers! There are more (way more) writers! But the readers read short easy to consume things!  But I'm confused on the whys and wherefores of this transmission of information.

To what audience is this article directed? Other writers? Because I feel like anyone that's dipped so much as a toe into the field is well aware of any to all of these points. And those who have gone to school for Creative Writing have definitely encountered the blankly enthusiastic / enthusiastically blank stares in response to their answer to "So what do you do? "followed by "Oh so you're going to teach?" possibly having to endure the sniping of more "practical" minded family members about how are they ever going to support themselves writing pah. So they know.

Is it directed at readers, alerting them to the plight of the intrepid yet piteous writer? But are their attention spans even long enough to get through the whole article, much less inspire them to pick up and consume some literary work of several thousand plus words-- not even mentioning things like (gasp) metaphor.

I support bringing attention to the plight of writers, I guess, I'm just not entirely convinced that there is a plight? Am I aiming my writing towards the "masses" or the "choir" of other writers? Maybe I don't know, and is that a problem? (For every article I've seen that's exactly like Colagrande's, though, I've seen at least one and a half more lashing out at how insular and incestuous the writing community is, so I guess it can be considered a problem, at lease in some eyes. Everything can be considered a problem though if you're trying hard enough. So there's that.

"But writers knew this, no? Creative writers [hopefully] understood that they were entering into a life of constant rejection and stiff competition; no money for a really long time; an arduous and lonely process of creation and revision that never gets easy; a lifestyle where no one cares if they ever write again; a world where everything gets in the way of writing, including those who love and support them the most; plus, the wackiest business on the planet -- publishing -- gutted by the digital age, where networking appears more important than creating, where writers exhaust themselves promoting work, if lucky enough to find a publisher and agent. Writers understand a minute fraction of adults who read are tuned into the literary arts, yet they carry on. They've learned firsthand that "luck" and "who you know" often trump talent and effort, but they carry on. And they comprehend that the literary arts are drawing the small stick in the reading revolution, yet so what. Like Charlton Heston with a shotgun, you can yank the keyboard from their cold, dead hands."

Ah, do I detect a hint of snark there, Colagrande?

I just am really not sure what this guy is trying to tell me, or what he's trying to tell other people about what my life is like, or if he's trying to tell me about what my life is like?

Do I appreciate this support? Even if it feels a little underminey? If I'm being mocked, either he's doing it wrong or I'm doing it wrong.

I don't really mourn the fact that people, my peers, who were never going to voluntarily pick up a book anyway are gluttonizing Twitter and various newsfeeds. Yes, it bogs down my own consumption of the wider text-based world sometimes, but I'm not writing for them. I was never writing for them, and I will never aim to. Nor, on the other hand, will I force their faces into my writing as it is, for all of our sakes. My writing, hopefully, does not differ for my audience or lack thereof-- my explanation (if there is one) very well might, but I try to keep original generation as an entirely separate thing. I, for one, am reading other creative writers, some kind of on the far-out end of the branch. They can write for me if they feel like it, or if they don't, or if they don't care. That's fine. I'll be here to read it. And that in turn inspires what I write. Which they may read. Etc. I am absolutely okay with all of this cycle for some reason.

Point is, this really isn't the kind of article about the struggles of the creative writer or what have you that I want to read. I just want more, especially if the writer is a supporter of creative production and consumption. There's no real life being pointed to here but  lack of reception, no personality or vivacity to the so-determined soul of the writer. Except I suppose for the mental image of Charlton Heston with a shotgun. And maybe that then is his buried point? We can fight to stay read or even be relevant, but what do we lose by persisting through such desolate adverse circumstances? Character, face, spirit? Feh.

Or maybe I'm looking an honest if bland kudos too far in the mouth.

No compromise! Viva le genreless symbol of ennui!

Scribspo

I've been giving a lot of thought (and therefore, of course, a lot of anxiety) to shaping the place where my writing comes from. Not necessarily what I write about, though that could very well end up being part of that, but what drives me to write. Or, to be more specific slash meta about it, what drives me to diving me to write. And also the fear of the lack of said driving.

A podcast I listen to, "Stuff Mom Never Told You", recently did an episode "Is fitspo unhealthy for women?" Fitspo consisting mainly those pictures on Pinterest etc of all of those beautifully lit uber-scuplted lady abdominals dripping in sweat, exhorting you to go workout NOW and push yourself HARDER. Often they're overlaid with some kind of text to this effect. Some of it is pretty regular motivational poster stuff, like the quotation from T. Roosevelt, "Nothing worth having was ever achieved without effort" (Now picturing Teddy ogling some sweaty girls) or "Be Active Get Sweat Feel Great Repeat" mild exercise propaganda. Fine. But then you get into the territory [oh dear god I just accidentally closed my browser window and thought I lost all of this, thank the gods for automatic saves] that's questionable and creepy, the compulsive imagecentric-- "so... you'd rather have a bag of chips than look like this?" "Suck it up now so you don't have to suck it in later" "Would you rather be covered in sweat now or covered in clothes at the beach?"    Um.

Basically this trend fad whatever covers motivations on the spectrum from "Well, I guess I would like my body to feel better and work better and this is something that I overall would like to do and is good for me" to "If you TOUCH that potato chip and also do not do 2,483 crunches every day you are a horrible person and no one will ever love or desire you because you are fat and ugly."  Again, um.  Looking at the Pinterest page for Fitspo is starting to make me anxious and depress me ("Fitspiration" is definitely less than inspiring to this particular gal") so I'm going to close it now.

It's this acute shame end of the spectrum I'm interested in, though. Because it's this kind of psychology, the humiliating personal trainer/drill sergeant manufactured voice inside the head, that I feel is uncomfortably similar to how I goad myself into writing. And that's not ok, for basically all the same reasons I feel squicked out looking at the fitspo pictures. It's the wrong reason, the wrong drive to compulsion. (Is there a right drive to compulsion?) Maybe all of these (predominantly) girls just want to do the right thing by themselves and be healthy, but a lot of it smacks of control and self-image issues and a distortion of the idea of who they are and what they could be.

For me, for my writing (I feel just incredibly self-conscious, by the way, talking so much about "my writing", as if it were a thing of cohesion, a fact) this is how it should be: It's not about the results. Well, okay, it is about the results, but it's not exclusively about the results. If the process isn't done "right" (or "rightish" or "in the realm of rightability"), the results are never, ever going to matter, They are never going to be good enough And yes. Ambition and the drive to succeed and to always be better are good things in their own way; I'm sure everyone can agree on that. Teachers and parents etc nod their heads. But this kind of "Do it Do it better and if you are not doing it right now nothing will ever be okay" leads to a screeching negative feedback loop. If I stop writing, the self-shaming doesn't stop, it just gets stronger. Which, of course, instead of encouraging me to pick the pen/keyboard back up, makes me even more reluctant to do so. And so the shaming gets more intense. And on and on.

This isn't how I want to write.

I want to write because I have something to say, or because I want something good to come out of it. Not because not-writing is hell, and writing is crap but slightly less personally foul. I know it's never going to be vomiting sunshine and rainbows (that sounds awful, actually), but I want it to be an overall positive process in my life.

I know that plenty of "successful" and "good" writers have had horribly unhealthy and negative relationships with their writing and their writing process and it's all compulsion etc. I've seen Naked Lunch too. But that's not me, and I have to accept that. As much as I would love to play the Tortured Writer who just burns to pick up a pen with every breath and can't stop no matter how brutal, that's not my role. If I want to keep writing. I'm going to have to be the one that pushes myself to do that, not some mythical inner fire.

So let's just hope I can get away from this culture of shame I have immersed myself in and find some way to do that without causing some kind of neurotic break.

Wasting Words

I think I may need to start Writing some Really Bad Prose. Just vomiting it out, watching it slosh everywhere, letting it dribble down the drains. Pour enough out of me until it starts to filter into Mediocre Prose. Because while I think I will never be a Prose Writer, I feel like there is some kind of vague connection between the relative quality (as I perceive it) of prose I do produce (i.e. almost exclusively this blog at this time) and how I relate to / project / reflect on myself. Not completely clear on how this relation is laid out, and not saying I produce my best in times of self-contentment and worst in times of self-loathing,  but there's something, hiding between correlation and cause and effect. I have the creeping fear that my ability to express myself is degrading, and degrading quite quickly.
I used to keep a traditional journal/diary, writing about my day thoughts experiences etc, but that has dissolved into scribbled diaryesque "poems"--not because the medium of poesy is better for expressing my life (though it is) but because that is the only shape my grasping, fragmented and sprawling, inarticulate attempts to describe can mimic. The amount of question marks in these poems has been growing. I flip back through the pages and their numbers make me anxious, an assault force of doubt assembling.
I flail about with words trying to recreate whatever is echoing in my head, and generally it's a pretty frustrating process. When I do this for sentences and paragraphs and at the end there is nothing insightful or revealing or even charming and witty to show for it, it just makes me... sad. And very impotent. Talk may be cheap, but I believe there is absolutely such thing as a waste of words. I also believe I do it all the time. And if I am going to claim words as the tools of my trade, it seems disrespectful, wrong, to go on wasting them without acknowledgment. So here's to slaughtering words relentlessly and hoping their corpses pile up enough to support something more beautiful.

..

I get headaches (or perhaps singular, a headache) every evening now. Internal pressure expanding with no definite point of origin or concentration, just an amorphous distraction of pain. I figure it's  a) a godlet making ready to emerge from my head   b) my body telling me I need to give some serious consideration to my life w/r/t waiting tables  or   c) I need to get my sinuses Roto-Rootered . Today, the buildup has started early. Guess that means I'm getting a headstart on the day. Ha. Guess I'll see where it takes me.

Thriving is just Getting By on Steroids

I've had a pretty good week. I think I've had a good week? Couple of weeks? Time oozes by in weird hunks for me, like slightly past date cottage cheese, so it gets hard to tell. But it inches by in good things-- The Poetry Brothel Rendezvous event went fantastically, bang up good time, etc, and I think I did well for myself--my skirts stayed on the entire time (dang) and did a generous handful (heh) of private readings, almost entirely to "clients" I'd never met before (almost all men, but I do look ravishing in a corset so can't blame them). I also have two pieces in the new Volume 4 of Smoking Glue Gun (GO READ), as well as work forthcoming in plain china. Also, finally got my rejection from Fairy Tale Review, not a bad thing--I wasn't sure if they had gotten my submission at all, and it was very pleasant and encouraging. I knew publication there was a pretty long shot, so it's nice to receive the positive response I did.

Anyway, was thinking on all this and realized--with more than a little relief--that this feels right. I feel really good about getting my work out there, and I'm excited to produce more. Yes, this is indeed what I want to be doing.

I had lost touch with that feeling for quite a while, and it was not only discomforting but actually a bit terrifying. Because I was still doing writing stuff, submitting, reading, but without any real heart behind it--and more importantly, without making any new stuff, better stuff. Basically writing a bunch of literary checks I couldn't cash. So pushing forward and pushing forward blindly, without knowing why or how I was going to keep it up...felt like I might end up pushing myself over a cliff in the dark. But now, for lack of some less trite image, there's a little bit of light, a Tinkerbell of encouragement: Yes, this is going to be hard. No, you are not a prolific prodigy but you have your damn foot in the door and that's better than some. Use it, you can take another step here. And here. Etc.

There are no fresh starts. Keep on keeping on.

Running in the Heat

Alright, a metaphor-thingy occurred to me regarding the whole writing/workaday deal that I was rather sloppily mentioning previously. It's not particularly original or anything, just two Things I'm Dealing With (/With Which I'm Dealing) that frustrate me in parallel ways.

Writing, for me, is like running. (Told you. But bear with me.) They are both activities I try to do regularly, and sometimes I even get pretty good at building up a habit. Sometimes I am compelled to do these activities, even at inopportune times. Sometimes I really just don't want to, and I feel good about myself when I make myself go through it anyway. And, of course, sometimes it's easier than others. 

We are in a brutal heat wave right now, or in other words, business as usual for Louisiana summer. Not even August and I sweat standing still. So even a sedate jog seems like an exercise (ha) in insanity, not to mention an invitation for heat stroke. I have more or less given up on complaining abut the weather, especially during the summer (i.e. 9-10 months out of the year), but now when I want to run, I have to do at least a mental rant every time. Because it sucks. In addition to undergoing suffocation in motion (I am breathing but oh god where is all of the delicious oxygen?), I am so much slower during the summer. So much. And it's really, really difficult to go out there knowing I am going to drown in my own sweat and take ten minutes longer to go the same distance I always do, especially when it was so much easier just a few months ago. In the fall/winter I actually feel good when I go for a run, all zesty and energized--like how I hear exercise is supposed to make you feel. And I get better at it, and run faster, and look all cute in my shorts. Then summer rears its ugly hot humid head and oh god why. But you know what? In the last week, I've done my usual run--the long one, 2.8 miles--three times. Three. It wasn't pretty, but dammit I did it anyway. Take that, stifling weight of summery sluggishness.

My writing (and my attitude towards it) tends to follow a cycle of furious advancement followed by long plateaus. After having such a great semester of words, I fear--I know--that I am about to hit/hitting one of those plateaus, one which threatens to be impressively bleak and barren. And since my periods of good progress tend (not coincidentally, obviously) to coincide with workshops where I am being forced to read and write and interact with my peers, I am particularly nervous about this dry spell--for the first time in a long time, there are no formal workshops in my forseeable future (informal ones will be attempted, but those have a history of falling apart rather consistently). Making myself write during these times wreaks havoc on my psyche bordering on physical pain. I realized today, not incidentally on my run, that this is more or less exactly what trying to run in the summer is like (Ok I am thinking really hard but oh god where are all of the brilliant words?). Except somehow it is easier to make myself finish a run, and then start another, and another, than it is for me to keep writing. Or start writing. Or restrain from burning my notebook. But dammit, I need to keep doing it anyway. Because if I stop now, I'm afraid I won't ever start again. And I refuse to have that particular weight of regret on my (now tanned) shoulders.

So I won't. Get ready summer, because you about to get all churned up in my pigheaded determination to forge through this writing plateau. Now, take that.

Sharing Space

Up "early" (yes, 8:45 is skeleton-groaningly early for me) to spot-treat blouses and aprons, which process consists of rubbing at red wine and marinara stains with a ghetto dishsoap+water+bleach mixture and muttering under my breath about wearing whites at an Italian restaurant.  This takes place in my office, which by the way gets great morning light, especially very early (I'm almost never awake and useful enough to appreciate it).

Over the past couple months, I've attempted to transform the office from "that room where we put the crap we don't want to think about right now" to an actual functioning workspace. I think I've mostly succeeded; the desk is usually clear enough to write on (hypothetically, of course), and the futon is an appropriately cozy spot to curl up and read. Also, in addition to the good light, this is currently more or less the cleanest room in the house (albeit full of stuff everywhere). All in all, it's shaping up to be what I always intended it to be--a room where I could write/read/whatever separate from the space(s) in which I sleep, eat, entertain, etc. The restoration of this room has also proved to be quite timely; since Boy's return home for the summer, I have had to abruptly switch gears back from living in severe solitude to couples living, and the office provides a nice little retreat from video game noises or boys' night in.

Anyway, I had put together this room with writing in mind. There are no less than five separate notebooks surrounding me on this desk, plus various scraps of paper taped to the wall with journal submission deadlines and slightly threatening self-reminders to write, goddammit. And of course, my first rejection letter hangs proudly (or whatever) by the door.

But despite all of these good intentions, my writing implements and materials have quietly been gathering dust as they disappear beneath the uniforms and detritus sloughed off after a long day (or evening, or both) of being a waitron (also relegated to the office). The ironing board gets more use than the desk, and the submission deadlines go unheeded. Such a blunt and concrete representation of how quickly workaday life can suffocate creativity (passion? not really sure what the right word is here)-- if you let it. I am more than a bit weak and cowardly when it comes to this particular aspect of life. It has defeated me many times before. But I will get the upper hand again, and soon.

But yeah, now I have to go iron a blouse for a Sunday double. Life.

Brief Update (AKA "Not Dead")

Semi-apologies for the potential depressitivity of my previous post. Been in a weird place lately, but while this morning I am again somewhat wandering the glum-lands, for the most part I've been pretty damn chipper and optimistic this past week. We will see how long that can hold out in the face of French Existentialism. Emotional resilience! Constant vigilance! Etc.!

Of course, I vowed with the start of the semester to be superEXTRAproductive this time, no really, it's seriously going to happen. Got all (most?) of my stuff organized, and then promptly spent my (long!) weekend entirely on socializing and shenanigans with excellent friends. Even better than productivity, in my opinion. Also, the most wholesome game of Twister I've ever played.

Classes are all promising, and I'm gearing up for a semester as a Supernerd. Dante! French! French Existentialism! Intensive Writing! First task: Master (or at least meet in passing?) French pronunciation. Then on to tackling my writing-stential angst. Break.

I CAN HAZ THESIS STATEMENT?

Since I am now officially done beating my brain into a pulpy mush to extract papers, etc. (at least for this semester) and griping about it, I can now get back on an ivory-soap box and talk about why it is important to be able to construct coherent sentences from your brain-mush.

Even if you are not a giant geek like I am, flying into giddy fits over discovering the shared etymological root of punch (the drink) and punch (the flying fist)*, it is pretty obvious that yes, words are important. You use them every day to convey important (or trivial) ideas, and you need to organize them properly in order to convince your professor (and friends, and later on your boss, coworkers, lover, parole officer, etc) that you are not a flaming numbskull. You take advantage of this skill (or lack thereof) every time you open your mouth. Fortunately or unfortunately, we cannot aways rely on the Gift of Gab (and all the relevant "like"s and "y'know"s that tend to fill conversational/logistic gaps) to help us out. Your words at some point have to take the form of squiggly little letter on a page (or screen). They are there for longer than are soundwaves in the air, and give your audience time to reread, process and criticize what you have put forth. Opportunities for judgment are increased exponentially. So please at least attempt to make yourself sound like a functioning human being (but don't try too hard--overwriting is pretty damn agonizing to read as well).

This article on Salon by Kim Brooks does a pretty good job of expressing the frustration I often feel when I encounter the writing of my peers. And, as I will almost inevitably be teaching a chunk of composition classes at some point in my life, the same article is incredibly depressing to me. I have over the course of my education been blessed with some fantastic English teachers, both in high school and in college. And, were I ever (*shudder*) to end up in the same position, I can only hope I live up to the standards they set. More likely, I think, I would be driven to drink. Because I have also had my share of shoddy English teachers, But, looking around at my classmates, I couldn't always blame them for their apathy or their rote, heads-down approach to the curriculum. Teaching is hella hard. But even so, I'm going to hope that some attempt is being made to wedge Critical Thinking and the Production of Ideas and Discourse into this/my generations head. Because even the small slice I've personally witnessed is...well, unacceptable.

Okay, I'm stepping down of my "elitist" soapbox. But goddammit, I'm not asking everyone to go out there and write the Great American Novel, or even develop an appreciation for the Mediocre American Novel(s). JUST MAKE YOUR WORDS WORK.

*[In case you're interested, by the way, the etymology is from the Indo-European root penk(w)e-, which is where we get the word "five" (cf. Greek pent-)-- punch traditionally had five ingredients, a punch is made from the five fingers of a fist. Ta Da!]

If I read or type the word(s) poetry/poems one more time in the next hour, I'm revoking my own literacy privledges

Just finished reading Chelsey Minnis's Poemland. I had been somewhat avoiding picking it up for a few weeks because both the back and front covers are printed with a close up of annoyingly pink fur and some confusing barcode type things (these, of course, are painfully relevant to the themes of the book. Go figure.).

Anyway, still not 100% on whether or not I like this book (certainly it did not ignite such distaste in me as Tao Lin's did), but at least now I feel significantly better about my struggle with writing poetry and the nature of poetry. This (along with money, and various shiny things) is what Minnis deals with in Poemland. Her way of grappling with this question is apparently by publishing a book with a lot of bizarre similes and more ellipses than, well, it is a lot of ellipses also. [I was going to put in some witty turn of phrase here but I cracked under the pressure of producing one. So there.] Not quite sure what my own way of dealing with my relationship with (to? no, with) poetry is, but to see someone else slopping around in their own poetic mud eases my mind just a smidge.

Mind, I don't feel particularly better about any future of my quoteunquote writing career (end result: probably hermitude), but its nice to have some breathing space away from the panic-weight for a while.

Of course, Chelsey Minnis lives in Boulder, Colorado. Obviously she can make money from publishing a book of lines fretting over said lines. That's what they do there in utopia.

So what, a lot of people sleep with writers

This is the anxiety like a binder clamp on the end of my esophagus as the mountains of digital accolades pile down on notme, all compiled of notme. These are the split ends and the bitten nails quietly cataloging the creeping triumph of notme. These are the ghosts of mistaken praises whose insubstantial feet I have seen dissolve.

Do not say failure, do not think failure, there will be enough of that from other sides. Do not look at other sides. There is a gold star on my calender for each day I write.

Do not put down that pen.
For God's sake,
Do not

Sauntering Vaguely Improvement-wards

So if I wanted to be really ambitious this new year, I could make the following goals:

-Make a budget. This would require having a rough estimate of combined household income, which is a slippery fish indeed. Both Boy and I wait tables, and while I have heard tell that it is possible to budget in this line of work, I strongly doubt our capacity to do it, at least while our finances are structured as they are.

-Donate and/or volunteer. I've already put a little money into Kiva micro-lending but I could really afford to put a little more, I guess. Ideally I'd volunteer with Habitat for Humanity, and actually gain useful construction skills. Anyone with me?

-Cook more. This is both for the sake of food and for the sake of money. It's hard sometimes, though, considering how picky of an eater I am and how un-creative I can be in the kitchen. However, currently cooking a big ol' pot of red beans and rice, made with only a few glances at the recipe. My Cajun family would be proud.

-Write more. I don't even need to talk about this one.

-Oh, also read more. Ideally at least 12 books this year, one per month, hopefully off my "To Read" list.

I'll be keeping these in the very back of my mind this year, because if I think about them or actively plan too much, they will absolutely not get done. Things like this have to lurk in the corner of my mental vision to be truly effective. So here's hoping! If you have any recommendations (recipes, good books, local volunteer opportunities) to help me inch along this path, do let me know.