I am sitting down to start writing. Now that I have two day jobs (one full time, one part time) that old idea about writing every day has disappeared, along with cleaning the house, so this would be the first time I’ve added any words to a novel in progress since exactly a week ago.
It’s my own fault: I’ve made decisions in the past that have led to this, both good and bad. I don’t let myself feel angry that at my age—less than six years from supposed “retirement”—I have as hectic and pressured a life as I have ever had. That would mean wishing all the amazing things I’ve done in past years undone, and I don’t regret a moment of it.
My situation has taught me a lot about myself as a person and as a writer—not that the two are actually separable. (Just then, a thought popped into my head: “Damn! I have to email this person about that…” Focus, Susanne) One thing it has taught me is just that. To focus on being creative, on seeing something through from beginning to end, requires time and space.
I do read every day, however, in those cooling down, mind-clearing moments before bed. One of the things I’ve been reading is Dani Shapiro’s Still Writing. I felt the need to read something about craft to help me bridge the gaps between when I could sit down and write and when I had so many other necessary things crowding my mind.
Big mistake. Don’t get me wrong: Shapiro writes beautifully, the book is engaging and thought-provoking. It just doesn’t provoke the right thoughts for me at this time. Shapiro has a busy life, of course: children at school, a house to run, and we know that those things are time-intensive and much more work and more stressful than those who don’t have such occupations believe. But her angst is all about sitting down at the computer and having a stretch of time in front of her every day that she must fill with productive writing, and the mind tricks and strategies that she employs to get the most out of them.
Can you spell “envy?”
I had to abandon the book for the moment because it was making me feel guilty, angry, depressed, deprived—all things that are not conducive to good work in any part of my life.
And then I started thinking about the writing I am doing. I have three—count them, three—projects on the go at the same time. One is an old novel, the beginning of a trilogy of which the other two novels are already finished, but which have never found a publishing home. One is the novel I’ve been writing about here that takes place in New York City in 1910. The third is a contemporary novel that I thought I couldn’t or wouldn’t want to write, but that’s proving a little more engaging to me than I anticipated.
All three of them are in danger of never being completed. When I work on one, I feel as though I have left the other ones abandoned and gasping for attention. They distract me from what I am writing, add an extra layer of guilt on top of the, “I should be weeding the garden, or cleaning the house, or going to the dump” etc. Shame on them.
I am not one to anthropomorphize my projects normally, not one who sees each precious novel as a child that one is sending out into a cold, cruel world. I see them as creatures of my imagination, though, that would not exist if said imagination did not breathe life into them. Bad reviews, poor sales—these things disturb me, of course. But I don’t feel they constitute a personal attack. A novel, once it is published, has its own existence separate from me.
And that’s the key: once it is published. Until then, that novel is very much a part of my psyche, my inner and outer world. And that is why by doing what I am doing right now, I feel as if I am constantly being a bad “mother.”
If I had six or eight hours a day to put into my writing I might be able to divide up my time and chip away at each of them. But with only—if I’m lucky—that much time each week, I have to choose. It’s my own personal Sophie’s Choice, albeit much less genuinely heart-rending.
So, now that I’ve spent some precious time writing this, which one of my projects will get my attention today, and which others will be left to beg on the street for food to keep them alive until I can nurture them in their turn? And having spilled all this out, can I give myself permission to work the way I have to work, and not feel guilty about it?
I’ll leave you to guess.