Waiting for my Real Life to Begin

When I first started this endeavor I promised you that I had more “how to write” books than any normal person should be allowed and that I would share them with you; that I would review writing courses, conferences and events;

and that I would review authors and their works.  And I’ve done some of that over all this time, for sure.  But I realized something this week as I searched for what to write here.  I don’t want to talk about “how to” anymore.  I don’t want to hear one more thing about somebody else’s process.  I don’t want to hear how steam baths at midnight are the only sure cure to writer’s block, or that you have to chain yourself counter-clockwise to a desk for precisely one hour per day in order to produce a book.  I don’t want to learn about how Twitter will save my sad life, or that I have to have a circle of “friends” that I’ve never met in order to be taken seriously. 

I am over Shaggy Dogs and done Saving the Cat; I’m done Taking Charge of my Talent by handing over it’s course to a disembodied voice on a page.   I’ve

been around the Writer’s Block more times than I can count, seeing Bird by Bird along the way.  I’ve taken 30, 60, 90 Days to my Novel; Written the Natural Way, and in innumerable unnatural ways and have Drawn on The Artist Within.  I’ve taken The Way and The Artist’s Way; I’ve Written Down the Bones and gotten On Writing with a Wild Mind.  I’ve Come Unstuck and had to glue myself back together again when all that did was leave me in pieces.  I’ve read every Style and Usage manual, every Freelance Writer’s Bible, every Publication Manual and Writer’s Market tome.  I’ve poured through Elements of Style in a desperate search for my own.  I have a Heritage Dictionary in every room, a Thesaurus on every shelf.  I’ve stalked famous authors, following them from conference to conference.  I’ve read a dozen libraries of great, and not so great, literature.  I’ve taken countless courses from brilliant, inspiring minds that got me thinking and daring to test out the waters; combined with some that scared me away for years.

And after all of this I have decided that I am done.  No more. 

While searching years for motivation, for the perfect “diet”, the magic pill that will finally ordain me “A Writer” – something magical

occurred.  I started writing.  And all the rest of it fell gently but surely away.  I took what I needed, incorporated what fit, had some fun with what didn’t.  I’ve done my research, I assure you.

All my life I’ve held my secret.  I held it tightly to my chest, treasured it, shielded it, turned to it for solace and refuge.  I can be a writer – someday.  I know I can.  Someday, when I grow up, when I’m single, when my son is raised, when I’m financially solvent, when I’ve read enough of these “how to” books and found the perfect formula, then – then, I’ll write.  I’ll pull out this secret and make it so.  Well, I’m finally doing it.  I am writing.  I am writing a

novel, an actual book, the Holy Grail. 

But, here’s the funny thing.  I started it without the “someday” happening, without sticking to one single recipe espoused by those I’ve read and heard.  I’m doing it without all the planets perfectly aligned, everything set up just so.  I’m learning that writing doesn’t need a rarefied vacuum in order to exist.  In fact, it seems to thrive on chaos.  It eats chaos for breakfast and burps it back out onto the page.  I don’t need to be removed

from the “real world” - writing is how I’m managing living in it.  It’s giving it meaning and me a lifeline, a whole world to claim and own and revel in.

I’m learning so much by just doing.  So much of what I read about writing, every class I ever took – it’s all actually making some sense as it takes form on the page before me.  I’m still scared for reasons I can’t quite articulate.  There is still a mass inside somewhere that has writing painted as something to run from as fast as I can.  I don’t fully know why.  It’s not “easier” in that regard.  I still “Duck, Duck, Goose” my way around my desk.  I still don’t have time to write.  I still don’t really know what I’m doing. 

But I can’t deny that I am doing it, that I’ve engaged.  I can still run away again – I know.  But the further I get along this path, the less I can see of the road where I turned off.  It’s disappearing.  I remember it still; how dark and lonely it was, how hopeless it felt.  I don’t ever want to be on that road again.  This new path I’m on is the one I’ve been searching for blindly my whole life.  I stumbled around for so long grabbing other people’s maps to try to find my way.  I didn’t realize I had to make my own.

It’s all new. Brand new.  All I want right now is this one thing – to keep writing my story.  Just that.  I don’t know what, if anything, comes after that (don’t

tell any future potential publisher that though, I know, I know).  I want to write this story to the best of my ability.  It wants out and I’m going to try my best to let it out into the best possible light.  It’s interesting how the rest of my life is gradually turning to get in sync with this path as well.  It’s light falls on everything I do.  On a good day, even the soul suck of the day job can be seen a little more objectively through this burgeoning filter. 

I am in love with all of this.  With the people, the process, and that incredible rush of exploring something brand new.  Most of all I am amazed that I’m finally doing what has mostly been only a fantasy in my mind since I can remember.  I

think I was scared that if I did it, maybe it wouldn’t be as grand as I had made it out to be in my mind, that it could never stand up to how built up I made it.  But it is infinitely better than even my imagination could imagine.  It’s better because it’s real, because I’m doing it instead of devoting all my energy to avoiding it, dancing around it, blocking and generating excuse after excuse.  “Doing” is easy in retrospect compared to that exhausting charade.

I’m afraid of a relapse.  I’m afraid I can’t keep up this process along with the day job for very much longer.  I’m

afraid I’ll stop and not ever start again.  But for now, right now, I am happy.  I don’t want to ever let go again.