aka; ‘It’s not you, it’s me’
Quite often I have to take a moment to appreciate how little writing I get done. For someone who boasts of being an aspiring author and categorises it as somewhat of a modus operandi, I find myself living an ironic existence. If a mountain climber never soared to any height but that of his local park’s jungle gym, I doubt he could classify himself as such – or even as an aspiring such. Therefore, I guess I find myself curling the corner of my mouth into some form of a wry smile whenever I think about it happening (the ‘it’ being publication, of course). Don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe it can’t happen, or will for that matter never happen. I just wonder how long it’s going to take me. Authors write, and write, and write – it takes them years to get something on a shelf and that comes from not just having issues in getting the damn novel finished, but in just finding a good agent, and someone who wants to publish it. But what about me? How long will it take someone like me who, for want of a better euphemism, is going at a rather unproductive snail’s pace.
Of course there are those who do draft, after draft, after draft and four years down the line, are just about ready to try taking that quad-annum perfectly formed transcript to an agent. It’s going to be perfect (in the author’s mind) but what if that four years has just been spent detailing and re-polishing a book that just doesn’t cut it? One could say, well at least they are doing something and I give kudos to that because, as I mentioned prior, it’s currently more than I can feel accomplished about.
For what it’s worth, I think the previous paragraph is just an example of my lack of commitment to one, single, story. I am writing a book, but I don’t want it to take up to much of my life. Is it supposed too? And I don’t mean in a day-to-day form, I mean in a yearly – decade-y sense. I began writing ‘Ran Red in February 2009 and I want it will be finished by February 2010. Come hell or dangerously high water I will have a finished draft that needs a re-visit and a going through of the editing machine. But after that?
Then I’ll start something new and fresh and different. But of course, before all of that, I still have to actually write, which means time, which means (though I am using time now to write this, grant me that) actually standing up for the importance of pretty much my single goal in life at the moment – writing a book; becoming an author of more than just short stories and sarcastic one-liners on comment threads. I have to take, steal, find, nurture, snare some me (writing) time and for realz. Not just a notion to commit the wheels to motion and get the juices flowin’, but actual locked-in, eyes-focused on the words time.
Something I’ve always had an issue with is taking time for me and not feeling like I am shirking my responsibilities, being selfish and/or acting anti-socially towards my family. When aligned with the fact that my family does understand, I have to imagine it’s more than just a temporal thing, but moreover – perhaps – an issue I have always had; family or no. When I confront myself with this fact: that I am trying to be something which, by its nature, requires isolation at times, and yet I have issues with freeing myself of not having to be there at all times, I have to find that wry smile. Because it’s ridiculous, I am my own worst enemy.
I guess that’s it in a nutshell. It’s not finding the time; it’s not forcing myself to create a pocket where I can vanish with it being (O)ll (K)orrect, it’s just me and my own, unfounded, guilt complex. Does that mean that ultimately I am a writer aimed for disaster, or a flawed individual who just happens to have a specific issue that doesn’t help such an isolated career path? Well, we’re all fucked up in one way or another, but at least with it being an emotional… no, that’s not right. With it being a trait, or even an infected-algorithm, I can try and change things. I’m an adaptive individual, and I’m perceptive – at least with others, though perhaps with my own self not so much as I might have thought.
To better take on this battle of ‘me time’ and by extension, any time I wish to write, or perhaps do anything for me and me alone, I need to fine-tune my strategy and look more at it more from the inside. Creating something as pliable as the opportunity to sit down and create, I need to exclude all exterior influences and not think of it as pressure from without not to go do it, but the pressure from within that I can go do it. It is fathomable that I can teach myself to do this without feeling like its not allowed, that by nature it’s selfish and ignorant of those around me.
Pursuing an accomplishment such as writing is something a lot of people don’t understand. It’s less impacting to those around you and the world at large, but it’s one every artist suffers with. It’s somewhat of a selfish ideal to aim for, but a noble one. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to do something you are drawn towards, and it helps to have those around you who understand. My family understands this in me, and my need to do it. “It’s OK!” They say… I just think in the end, I was the only one who didn’t know it.
