Every once in awhile I come across a writer on social media who believes she has to almost kill herself for her craft. Late nights, too much caffeine, solitary confinement. She’s proud of it. She’s a slave to whatever she’s writing and if you aren’t on board with masochism, then you must not want it as bad as she does. You don’t deserve success. I’m sure this is a hold-over from, well, capitalism or something to do with independence. What it really is is nonsense. This kind of thinking, in my opinion, is a direct line to absolute ruin or at the very least ulcerative colitis (no, I’m not a doctor).
I’m writing this on a Monday. Yesterday, my husband and I sat on the couch for several hours watching the TV show Yellowstone. We ate popcorn, and Triscuits and pimento cheese. I wore a sherpa fleece-lined hoodie and wrapped myself in a blanket. We ignored the children. We reduced ourselves to barely-pulsating blobs. I asked questions like, “Who cuts Beth’s bangs?” and “Why is Tate the only one with any sense?” We did all of this instead of the numerous items on our to-do lists. I should have been editing. I should have been working on this newsletter. I should have been reading comps and working on my query letter. All in the name of my craft!
Yeah, probably.
I mean, it’s not wrong to say that working gets the job done. Obviously, my book isn’t going to finish itself. And I’m not writing this to plug self-care. What I am saying is that I flatly oppose the idea that working oneself to death is a sign of commitment to creativity. Let’s leave that to the investment bankers. We as writers depend on observing the world around us, but we can’t see a thing if our noses are to the grindstone.
It’s no longer romantic to be the writer alone in his room, clothes reeking of cigarette smoke and self-scorn. We’ve got stuff to do, kids to raise, cheese to eat. Maybe when we start tying our self-worth to the sweat-factor and speed at which we finish a project, maybe that’s when the “failure” of that project also becomes a failure of us. And what if it doesn’t fail? Then there’s the potential to believe that our success is rooted in the toiling hours and not in our ability as writers.
I love working on my projects. I feel good when I’m writing. I have hurried days where I’m on my laptop in the car while my kids are at piano practice or I’m editing while chicken browns in the pan for supper. I’ll admit to feeling accomplished at the end of these kinds of days because being busy feels like success. It’s fleeting, though, because what I really am is exhausted and irritable, and most likely dehydrated. I have days where my back hurts from too many hours in an uncomfortable desk chair. I miss lunch. I’m scatter-brained. But I also have days where I fold laundry and watch British crime dramas.
The story is never far from me. My characters are hanging out in the green room of my brain, legs dangling over the sides of arm chairs, practicing their lines.
How do you feel about pushing yourself? Where is your craft on your list of priorities? Let me know!
ACM