Writer Angst
desoyunoencama linked to a thoughtful essay by Matt Cheney, who looks back at the hopes and disappointments of wanting to be a writer--and be published--from a young age.
So much of what he said resonated with me. Next year I will have been at this for fifty years*. Fifty years of trying, and more often than not bruising my nose at the gate. Yet it wasn't until the past couple years that sometimes I thought Why? because right behind the why is the softer, more insidious, Who cares?
But then I sit down, and there are few joys greater than a good writing day. My goals have become so much smaller, and my awareness of the fact that at my age, I could drop dead at any time, makes me appreciate what I have, even if what I have is negligible to someone much younger. I also think that we monkey-puppets are designed to do work, some kind of work, and it's always been my conviction--long before I could articulate it--that writing is my work. (If not my connection to sanity, but that's a different subject, I think.) All the demanding jobs I have had in order to earn money, though those brought moments of satisfaction--clarity--accomplishment (disillusionment, sharp defeat, sadness and regret) and above all experience of life, each day there was always a tiny voice inside counting the ticks of time until I could get home and back to my work.
Enough about me. If you've got this inchoate drive, or even if you haven't, and want to talk about this side of the writer life, well, I invite you to sound out here.
*started at six, but got serious about it at eight. By 28 and still unpublished, I'd learned that serious does not equate successful.
So much of what he said resonated with me. Next year I will have been at this for fifty years*. Fifty years of trying, and more often than not bruising my nose at the gate. Yet it wasn't until the past couple years that sometimes I thought Why? because right behind the why is the softer, more insidious, Who cares?
But then I sit down, and there are few joys greater than a good writing day. My goals have become so much smaller, and my awareness of the fact that at my age, I could drop dead at any time, makes me appreciate what I have, even if what I have is negligible to someone much younger. I also think that we monkey-puppets are designed to do work, some kind of work, and it's always been my conviction--long before I could articulate it--that writing is my work. (If not my connection to sanity, but that's a different subject, I think.) All the demanding jobs I have had in order to earn money, though those brought moments of satisfaction--clarity--accomplishment (disillusionment, sharp defeat, sadness and regret) and above all experience of life, each day there was always a tiny voice inside counting the ticks of time until I could get home and back to my work.
Enough about me. If you've got this inchoate drive, or even if you haven't, and want to talk about this side of the writer life, well, I invite you to sound out here.
*started at six, but got serious about it at eight. By 28 and still unpublished, I'd learned that serious does not equate successful.