The good times are killing me
I feel ridiculous writing here after such a long hiatus, or even taking time to write something other than my dissertation. But I crave it. Don't get me wrong-- I enjoy (enjoy's not quite the right word... something deeper than that) my political theory writings. It's just that sometimes I need to let my imagination run free, to let myself say what I want to say through whatever fictions I desire to concoct, to be my own voice. I had a terrifying revelation the other day. I can no more imagine living my life without writing a novel than I can imagine never having a child. What a startling sentiment to discover within myself, shuffling along the icy sidewalk on my way to class! And then, the strange disappointment. The realization that I'm not getting any younger, that every day I have less and less of my life ahead of me. One can't just write a novel. It takes enormous amounts of work. Daily devotion, probably for years. Not to mention talent. What hopes do I have of ever writing a novel when my workload is already barely manageable, when I've had to adapt so much of my creative side to the constraints of academic writing, when I haven't learned all the things my friends in MFA programs in creative writing have learned? The notion that I could write a novel (one worth reading, of course) seems so far-fetched. And yet, the thought of not writing one fills me with indescribable pain. My only life, perhaps, lived without doing something so important to me. I think this and I stop breathing.
I try to console myself by envisioning a time (a future sabbatical?) when I might be able to work on it, or promising myself that it could be done in bits and pieces over a twenty-year span. The thought always excites me and makes me want to start now. And then the exhaustion and the immensity of the undertaking catches up, and tomorrow seems like a better time to start. But I must make it happen, like everything else. It may be the strangest sort of novel, vacillating between the thoughts of a twenty-seven year old and a seventy-seven year old, but maybe that will be its charm. And maybe my lack of training will prove beneficial in some way. All I know is I don't want to have this regret.
I try to console myself by envisioning a time (a future sabbatical?) when I might be able to work on it, or promising myself that it could be done in bits and pieces over a twenty-year span. The thought always excites me and makes me want to start now. And then the exhaustion and the immensity of the undertaking catches up, and tomorrow seems like a better time to start. But I must make it happen, like everything else. It may be the strangest sort of novel, vacillating between the thoughts of a twenty-seven year old and a seventy-seven year old, but maybe that will be its charm. And maybe my lack of training will prove beneficial in some way. All I know is I don't want to have this regret.