About a month ago, I went through writer’s remorse. Like its cousin, buyer’s remorse, I began to regret the words I’d written, the spin I’d put on them, the polish I’d failed to apply to them when they were still fresh and wet. I began to criticize my draft, seeing flaws and tragedies in every line. I won’t go so far as to say I tore it up – this is, after all, the digital age – but I did shelf it all for later. Possibly never. I also unsubscribed myself from various writing lists, twitter lists, and RSS feeds. I needed a good break. My towel I left with a friend. She took pictures of it for me.
So what’s the deal? Yes, I have a short story I’m working on. I’d say more about it, but I’m not going to. It isn’t hush hush or anything, just a departure from past writing that I’d like to flesh out a bit. But in my meandering road of cutting off RSS and twitter feeds, I came to some conclusions.
- Talking about writing isn’t writing.
- Blogging about writing isn’t writing.
- Twittering about #amwriting isn’t writing.
- Reading other writers in any of the above venues? Not writing.
- Writing is writing.
Too often, I’m caught up in the daydream about writing. What it will feel like to be published for “real,” what the perfect vacation spot is for getting some writing done, the honor, the prestige, the accomplishment (notice I left out fame and fortune – I’m a dreamer, but I’m also a realist). Writing isn’t about any of that crap – actual writing is about writing words down. All that other junk is for after the writing is done, for self promotional marketing or whatnot.
I’m working on a short story right now that has me excited. I don’t think that the subject is spectacularly new in general, but its a new venue for my imagination to roam in. I have a bit of travelling ahead of me this week (flying out to Chicago for work, where in my down time I’m finally going to get to meet one of my old writing group friends), and I think a few hours in a boring hotel each night will do me some good. Not as good as sitting in my broken chair at home with a yankee candle going and the kids trying to beat each other with pillows in the background, but still some good. Because I’m writing again – not just stringing a story together, but telling a story, and it feels nice. Comfortable. Homey, even.
Sometimes it is nice to have zero distractions. There are still weeks when I find that my best code is written in notepad. Eclipse is closed, outlook shut down. Even the web browser is closed. Just me and that empty whitespace.
Hang in there, Mike.