The Writing Life

In our Sunday’s question several weeks ago, we asked what you wanted to hear about. One person said she wanted to hear more about the writer’s life.

No one answered immediately, probably because we are all hesitant to discuss the ups and downs of the writer’s life when so many people see only the “ups.”

The published writer’s life – and unpublished as well – is a roller coaster ride.

Gee, that’s a great first sentence for my new book. A day later, it’s a horrible one. Same goes for the first chapter, the mid-book (where in the heck do I go now?) And then there’s the end. I just received the galleys of the book I just finished. At this stage, I have read it about three times in the past two months and am thoroughly sick of it. I always think the last book is probably the worst I’ve written. I go into a deep funk.

Why did my editor ever accept it? I fear there’s probably something very wrong with her. So I worry about that, then I start worrying about the cover.

This times, my fears are justified. It’s a career-ending cover.

I’m convinced I will never get a new contract. But a new contract is offered, and I am back on top of the roller coaster run.

Then plunge. I’m orphaned suddenly. My editor goes elsewhere, and I know the new one won’t understand what I do as well as did the person who bought me. We were so in sync. Deep funk again.

Meanwhile the book in progress is not going well.

Interruptions galore. My beloved bathtub cracks and drowns my carpet. My heater doesn’t work during one of the south’s few major cold spells. I’m having a party for my chapter on Saturday and the carpets have to be cleaned (my dogs again). Workmen in and out. My oldster dog doesn't feel well and wants to sit in my lap, all twenty-six pounds of her. She kinda of overlaps.

I feel terribly guilty not having written more. I stare at the computer screen. I can’t concentrate waiting for the phone to ring about this workman or that or with Ting Ting looking at me with such a plea in her eyes. Instead I go to emails. Then to blogs.

Two hours later I return to Chapter Four. No further enlightenment. Or creativity.

Okay. Get productive. At least I can finish judging my chapter’s contest. There are two more contest entries (out of 24) to read. Off I go. At least I feel I am doing something useful.

Two hours later, I am even more depressed. Those entries were good. I mean really, really good. Out of twenty-four entries I’m judging, at least half are wonderful, another fourth has promise. I call my published critique partner and we both moan. Our careers are over. There are so many great writers out there.

And yet there’s a great thrill when I read something really good. Above all, I am a reader. I love good writing. I adore being transfixed by words. Even if the writer might put me out of a job.

Back to my chapter. A few more sentences. It just isn’t coming. Too many interruptions. The darn bathtub requires a remodeling firm, a plumber and a glass doctor to take down, then put back up, the mirror behind it. (Ever try to synchronize three different independent workers?) My 96-year-old mother in a nursing home is waiting for her nightly visit. I’m waiting for a call from the heating repairman while freezing. The contest still hangs over my head. Have read all the entries but now must assign scores. I have three perfect ones. Can that be right? Have to look at them again.

I really wanted a chapter ready for my critique group. But now there’s a blog to write. Read the beginning of the chapter again to get started. The phone rings. Repairman is delayed. The chapter is really bad.

If this sound confusing, it’s probably because it’s been a long day (week) full of frustrations. I want to write but there’s all those demons out there finding reasons for me not to.

So that’s probably why we don’t write much about the writing life. It’s depressing. It’s guilt laden. Sometimes it’s glorious, but getting there is often torturous. At this point, I usually pull out a quote that I heard years ago. It is attributed to a Chippewa indian.
“Sometimes I go about pitying myself
And all the while,
I am being carried on great winds across the sky.”


Tomorrow I will try again.