Real Writing

I am fully aware, intellectually as well as viscerally, that writing – real writing – is work; grueling, punishing, hard work.  I don’t think I’ll ever be one who can find

the joy that surely must exist in the act of writing.  For me, it’s paired behaviorally with feelings of panic – the words escaping me before I can get them down; dread – the words not coming at all; fear – the words that do arrive are trite and amateurish, pathetic, bad, wrong, invalid, exposing me as a charlatan wanna-be.

Do you remember “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” by Richard Bach?  It was all rage of its time.  The profundity I took away

from that author and his works wasn’t the hung-over ideals of non-conformity and following one’s true path, but the author’s note accompanying his next book, “Illusions” in which he wrote in part:

I do not enjoy writing at all.  If I can turn my back on an idea, out there in the dark, if I can avoid opening the door to it, I won’t even reach for a pencil.  But once in a while there’s a great dynamite-burst of flying glass and brick and splinters through the front wall and somebody stalks over the rubble, seizes me by the throat and gently says, “I will not let you go until you set me, in words, on paper.” 
 
That testament has stayed with me almost verbatim all these years.  It felt heretical, traitorous.  And it gave me wild hope.  Maybe being a writer didn’t require the one size fits all mold I had cast in cement in my mind, upon which I pounded until my fists were bloody, begging admission, yet fleeing whenever I affected a crack in the facade.  There was at least one other soul out there that had the same reaction to writing that I did.  And he was a real writer.

I get that the way around is always through.  To just do it, plow through, doggedly, resolutely.  Hard won satisfaction of accomplishment and reinforcement always follow.  But so often I'm seduced by the lure

of shiny objects; the perfect alignment of all things ‘writerly’ before I can really write.  The perfect desk, the perfect pen, notebook, laptop.  The ideal space, my own office with French doors and a view.  Sufficient time and luxury to devote, having to be retired before I can actually write.  Everything and more “Until.”

These epic battles require acknowledgement of the small victories, of any progress, any territory wrenched from the

the strong-arm grip of the enemy.

Well over a year ago I began arising at 5:00 a.m. so that I could have time to write.  I reinforced

that grueling feat, ritualized it, and it became its own reinforcement and I haven’t missed a morning since of at least some allotted sacred time.  I have created a rarefied bubble of space and solitude.  I bring my fuzzy red blanket to my favorite chair, my reading chair with the incredible view, and curl up cozy and safe in the dawn.  I bring coffee in a special cup.  I go to sleep every night in contented anticipation, react badly when I don't get up as early as I could to optimize every precious moment.

 And I write.  “Free” writing, right-brain writing – whatever you want to call it – without the computer, no typing, longhand only with special pens in special notebooks.  I just started making my own notebooks actually, to augment even more the specialness, the ritualized magic I’ve created.  If you had asked me a year ago if I would ever arise at 5:00 a.m. for anything I would have thought you a provocative fool.  Now, I seriously can’t imagine having this space and time torn from me, for that’s what it would take and I would fight to keep what I built.

So - I can craft these impossible things, accomplish these feats.  But - that relentless voice still nags; this is not "real" writing, not the authentic and arduous work I really should be doing.

 And to that bitch of a voice I am finally turning and saying ‘shut the hell up you old, worn-out and ridiculous harpy.’  How’s that for tempting the fates?  I have to find a way to do the hard work, yes, I know.  But I can also see irrefutable proof of advancement, and I have missives from behind enemy lines that there is in fact an underground; that I can not only get there, but I can choose my own route and method.
 
I feel like I’ve fired the first shot across the bow, reigniting an ancient battle.  I come to the fight with hard-won wisdom, refreshed resources.

I'm ready.  Bring it on.