this woman’s work

The girl I mean to be

Oct 20, 2004 Writing

I made a decision the other day. Actually, I made a decision over the course of many days and I’m still deciding it piece by piece by piece. The decision, if I can sum it up properly, is to write anyway.

See, I’ve been in hell the past couple of years (maybe longer) as I grappled with the meaning of my writing life. I made uneasy peace with my understanding of the market in part because I am very, very grateful that I’m getting a regular paycheck from it.

But then I got confused. I started thinking that this then was success. That to be even more successful, I needed to become even more marketable. Writing no longer was worth doing unless I could justify it with a sales plan.

This all culminated with my recent foray into query hell this past spring. (Go ahead, look in my blog archives.) Ironically, as I got closer to success, the more unhappy I became.

On writing lists, there is a chasm between those who Write and those who Write for Pay. I have played on both sides of that fence and I’ve come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter what you do as long as you’re pleasing yourself. It’s useless to argue whether or not this author or that one is a “real” writer because there is not a special place in heaven where the real writers get to hang. In other words, there is no moral superiority to being fabulous yet unpublished. I mention this because I’m not trying to play that game. It takes real talent to write things that people want to read. It’s harder than it looks to make evergreen topics look bright and shiny new for women’s magazines. Being too good for the world is, in my opinion, a sorry state of affairs.

For me personally, I am realizing that I need to return to writing Just Because and not worrying about sales so much or even at all. This epiphany was driven in large part (very large part) by the killing of my long-suffering infertility article.

It was very very sad. It was worth a good two or three weeks of sudden inexplicable tears. It was also a great learning experience.

See, my writer/editor friend, B., read the piece and one of the things she said to me was, “I can tell you’re tired of writing this.”

And oh lord, wasn’t I just. But I’d put so much work into it! I had this whole plan to pave my way to a book deal! I book I wasn’t sure if I wanted to write anymore but still! All that time! All that effort!

What I realized and am realizing is that the time and effort were worth it even though I ended up with nothing to show for it but a disgruntled, limping essay. When I first put pen to paper for that article, I was all excited but then Madison was born (remember, it was due at the same time she was) and by the time the dust settled and I turned on my laptop, I never wanted to see the damn thing again.

Back in the olden days — my green stenopad days, when I took my notebook with me everywhere, even to the bars when we went out dancing — I wrote because I loved to write. And lately I haven’t been loving the writing so much.

I thought it was good for me — all that writing that was no fun. I thought I was showing good discipline and a healthy respect for our financial bottom line. But see, I have the great luxury of a regular paycheck right now. And I have to do some not-quite-from-the-heart writing as part of earning that check. So why was I so desperate to make myself do yet more of that work? Well, because I figured that must be where my career was hiding.

In the last few weeks, I’ve been researching something that I might want to write about. Or not. But I like reading about it and dog-earing pages so I can make notes. (I read while sitting behind Madison to cushion her inevitable falls. I dog-ear so that I can record it on the laptop later.) It’s made me really happy but I felt guilty because I didn’t have anything to show for it. Mostly, I’ve been thinking about it and making notes. I have no plan. I have no thesis. I have no idea if anything will come of it. But it’s been so much fun!

I still feel absolute panic when I see people racing by me with book proposals and editorial calendars but I’m trying hard to sit on myself and remember that I can do that, too, if I want to. This is my choice. I don’t want to make excuses like about not having enough time because I know that when I really want something, I can always find the time.

I may never be getting a regular paycheck again and I may never have the luxury to revisit the green steno pad days so dammit, I’m taking advantage of it.

I’m glad I wised up and I’m hoping — my ulterior motive is — I’m hoping that I rediscover my voice because I think I lost it.

Possibly related posts

• Yawn (0)
• Polarity (0)
• Other lives (9)
• Late to the epiphany (17)
• Holding Madison (10)