I love the idea of being a prolific writer but the tactical work of it—the butt in the chair, boots on the ground terra firma-ness of it—well I find myself evading all that. I love imagining myself staring at my bookshelf filled with works I’ve written, completed and published, but I’ll spend all day polishing the windows (or usually just thinking about polishing the windows) and avoiding the work to actually get there like the plague.
My dream for myself as a writer has morphed significantly since I was a child submitting my work to Written and Illustrated By, a kid’s publishing contest that ushered in the likes of the great Dav Pilkey (genius behind the illustrious Captain Underpants series). Back then, I wanted to be rich and famous through writing. That was my north star for years, and it took me several decades to really question that assumption—several decades to realize how much I treasure my anonymity. It really solidified for me in a castle in Ireland when Bono showed up for a pint in the castle’s pub. He was rolling with a small crew and spent not ten minutes relaxing until a crowd of camera-wielding fans arrived to take his photograph and steal his soul. The idea of being hounded by crazed fans—by being unable to pull into a Hannaford and review, unfettered, heads of lettuce for blemishes—that idea gave me the heebie jeebies. The rich part has not yet given me the heebie jeebies, but I’ve realized I’m not into the whole hustle thing. I’d rather opt for a slow burn. I’m not clacking away on my keyboard until midnight and I’m just not an anything for my business! human. I’m a I could be writing this morning but let’s rock dawn patrol instead, do my day job, see my friends, and fall asleep in the 8s or 9s kind of girl. I think (I hope) you can likely still make it work, still achieve some version of whatever success you’ve defined for yourself but it will happen slower than for all the people who get interviewed by Tim Ferris on his podcast to discuss hyperproductivity. And I’ve started to be ok with that. Plus, I have to be ok with it, because I’m not showing any signs of movement towards an otherwise.
So ya—I spend most of my “writing” time journaling little pep talks to myself, which isn’t really the work, it’s just a warm up before the work, a time to galvanize and clear my head, or looking out the window. The work—the essay, or the long form book, or the poem—that might get ten minutes or a half hour on a good day. It’s better than what I did for twenty years or so which was simply dream of being a writer without lifting a pen, thinking somehow it would just “be so!”, like magic beans or abracadabra. I told myself “If I actually tried, I would be great! If I didn’t have to go to this silly day job, I’d actually have the time to write my works, get my deal and be on the world tour!” It was a big old bundle of excuses. To call one point out specifically, I’ve had days that stretched for miles in their vastness of “nothin’ much going on today” and didn’t once find myself “writing all day”. Maya Angelou let a hotel room, Stephen King works 3-4 hours a day, but my good day is 15-30 minutes, in the morning, while my loves are still sleeping and the blue of dawn is unfurling.
I once had an interview for a job in New York at the founder’s beautiful apartment. There were expensive, boldly colored tapestries on the walls and floor, and heavy looking pieces of furniture. I recall there was endless air and space in the apartment, despite its being filled with color and wood, and in that air hung the suggestion of great wealth.
I think the company’s owner size me up instantly as ill-fitting for the job (which has been true for every day job I’ve ever held—he was not unique in his astuteness).
“What do you really want to do?” he asked, leaning forward.
Since he’d clearly already marked my resume with a “Next!” at the top, I opted to be honest at question rather than protesting “No no! I seriously love researching rare earth metals, which is the primary responsibility here according to your job description! I love anything with the potential for fracking!”. “Well, I love to write,” I said.
“Ah,” he leaned back in his chair. “I knew it. Me too.” If he’d had a pipe, I think he would have lit it then. “Don’t ever do that for your job,” he said. “It’ll rob the joy of it.”
And I reviled against that advice then. You have no clue who I am and who I’ll be! I wanted to shout. But I’ve turned his words over—over and over—through the years, like a stone, and there was a thread of important truth in that advice for me. And it was this: Don’t let your dreams of being a writer 1) distract you from the actual work itself 2) unleash a Titanic sized weight of pressure on your back that will feel so heavy you can barely lift your pen. Uncoupling that dream of fame and riches from the work itself has been the single most important mindset switch I’ve made as a writer.
I think I thought that being a good writer would somehow get me out of a day job, the need to worry about paying bills, the need to save for retirement. I told myself “Soon I’ll be a rich writer, so I don’t need to think of these earthly worries.” It was kind of like my own version of the crystal shop owner’s dream of Mecca in The Alchemist. The dream sustained me, kept my going, but actually putting the time in to realize it? Bah!
Again, my dream has morphed significantly since I was five, plagiarizing Black Beauty to impress my family. Now, my only dream and goal is to actually do my work. To sit down, to write and complete my work, and to share it. I’ve unhitched my star from fame, though I remain steadfastly hitched to the notion of fortune (why not?). I’m simply following the mantra of “Always produce” as essayist Paul Graham would say.
I’ve heard that “The work is the gift” and I find that’s true. My writing time is my quiet time—it’s like being a in a holy cave where I can focus, and the opportunity and ability to focus is now, quite possibly, the most elusive thing on the menu of life, with everything that’s aimed at distracting you. When I’m writing, I don’t feel like a weirdo or an outsider—I feel like an instrument that’s in tune. As social connected beings, hardwired to prize acceptance in the group, a lot of us spend time wondering “Am I weird? Was that the most awkward thing ever to say just then? Why does it feel like everyone else is swimming and I’m thrashing about with heavy rocks tied to my feet like a Salem witch?” But when I’m writing, there’s none of that—just a calmness and a sense of belonging, a feeling I’m doing what I was made to do. And so I would agree that writing is the gift, and honing the craft the true responsibility of any artist or maker, and really the only piece you can control anyway.
Further inspiration
Cheryl Strayed: Write like a Motherfucker
Jim Carrey, The Real You
Tim Ferriss’s interview of Jerry Seinfeld
Steven Pressfield, The War of Art