I haven’t been myself lately. And when I say haven’t been myself, I mean not writing anything new. And when I say lately, I mean in the last year or so. To say I’m ashamed of my behavior is an understatement. I could weakly justify it by saying I was focused on getting my financial life back in order but even that makes me feel more shame.
The truth is I’ve been lazy and have not written anything besides a scattered poem or two in the last year.
And sadly, I don’t feel any better after my admission, even though that one poem the torturous self-critic in me has nothing to bitch about.
What’s so frustrating is the answer is clear and obvious: Just keep writing. And that makes sense. I do believe in “creative juices” and the necessity to keep them flowing. However, the problem isn’t that I can’t sustain the writing process; the problem is that I can no longer start, a linguistic impotency.
I decided to re-read Stephen King’s “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft.” I’ve read it several times and each time in the past it has helped get the blood going. Tonight, though, I came across a passage that this time gave me pause, and it’s right at the end of one very important, self-defining chapter.
“You can approach the act of writing with nervousness, excitement, hopefulness, or even despair- the sense that you can never completely put on the page what’s in your mind and heart. You can come to the act with your fists clenched and your eyes narrowed, ready to kick ass and take down names. You can come to it because you want a girl to marry you or because you want to change the world. Come to it any way but lightly. Let me say it again: you must not come lightly to the blank page.
I’m not asking you to come reverently or unquestioningly; I’m not asking you to be politically correct or cast aside your sense of humor (please God you have one). This isn’t a popularity contest, it’s not the moral Olympics, and it’s not church. But it’s writing, damn it, not washing the car or putting on eyeliner. If you can take it seriously, we can do business. If you can’t or won’t, it’s time for you to close the book and do something else.
Wash the car, maybe.”
This is a big “come-to-Jesus” moment for me. I mean, he’s right. I have to start taking this seriously or I am easily going to spend the rest of my life questioning “what if” and wondering “if only.”
I truly believe writing is the one thing I’m good at. Obviously any skill should be refined and mine really could use some refining, but I can at least recognize that while others may solve extremely difficult mathematical equasions in their heads in mere seconds or within .4 seconds mentally decide to and physically hit a baseball 400 feet, my talent is with words. And it’s about time I got off my lazy ass and wrote them down, maybe actualize this ridiculous dream of mine.
Besides, I hate washing cars.
Indeed. Harlan Ellison would regularly tell people that writing is work. It is like any other job: it is demanding and difficult and it should be treated as such. If it is important, treat it that way. Of course, Harlan Ellison was also a proponent of never giving anything you’ve written away for free. I don’t know if that’s even possible these days.
It’s also a lot like working out — the muscles atrophy if they are not regularly used. The ideas actually come less often when you don’t write. I’ve only ever experienced “writer’s block” when I haven’t been writing for a while. Last year I wrote almost nothing and made excuses for it. I would never do that with a real job. That’s how it should be approached. It is work. It may have something to do with talent, but it is still work, and requires you to keep the skills sharp.
Best of luck.