How’s Writing Going?
It’s almost gotten to a point where I’d almost even prefer “did you work out today?” or “are you dating anyone yet?”
But lezbehonest, I don’t. Unlike my answers to latter two though, the former takes a more careful and craftier response. It’s hard to tell someone how the passion of your life is going as opposed to your very simple dating life–or lack thereof.
NO, I’m not dating anyone.
But when prosed with the writing Q, my mouth stutters and my eyes panic.
Writing is going….I’m waiting for some stuff to be publi—I started a series for an online magazine no one has heard of—I’m in the works with a friend to launch a blog—do you read children’s books because—
NOT SO EASY.
It’s difficult because I think a lot of my identity rests on writing. Actually, on my writing. Like any art, it’s hard to cultivate a passion/talent/trade in a light that looks successful or worthy to be doing in the first place when it’s not say being played on the radio, on the NY Times Must-Reads or in a gallery somewhere in Brooklyn. Then again, I suppose that’s entirely subjective, but sometimes I wish there was something more tangible than clicking “publish” or “post” to help confirm I’m doing things–that I’m moving forward.
I often find myself dependent on the works I manage to finish. Because if writing is not going well, I usually am not so well and so I am not a success. And since that thinking is unfair, my definition of such a word has had to change (especially since I decided to step into such a lifestyle). It has transformed and is working it’s way to where it’s to be less a kin to the gold factor and worldly kind, but more responsible for carrying and acknowledging the weight of the power of word and blessing of gift. And when “success” becomes that, I am easily less discontent with my work, because though failure becomes somehow easier to recognize, it’s also easier to restore and or restart.
This is a passionate meets pitiful road I tred adamantly on, despite. it. all. No other profession could embody such traits more complimentary to me than writing.
I’m obscure, I’m introverted, I’m fickle, I’m random, I’m lofty, I’m emotional, I’m conundrumous and I’m ebb and I’m flow.
I’ve accepted I am meant to live in the tension that I think must be called creativity. I write because if I don’t, I go crazy. Though when I do, I also go crazy, but that type of crazy turns into like a cool and acceptable chaos that somehow detangles the already present ones in my head, heart and fingertips.
And though at times I feel like the most foolish person to want to partake in this craft as a forever endeavor, a wise and mentoring voice soothes this catered ache within me:
Writing is like a ‘lust,’ or like ‘scratching when you itch.’ Writing comes as a result of a very strong impulse, and when it does come, I for one must get it out.” (C.S.)
So this is me getting it out, my Russian nesting doll version of writing–writing on writing on writing and why I write. And hopefully also, these 545 words may suffice the next time someone asks me, “how’s writing going?”.