Are we having fun yet again?
I can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened, but writing feels like a miserable chore lately. Even these blog posts take way too long to write, and I never like the finished product. I say this not to solicit pity, but simply to state a fact: I am not having fun anymore.
All this self doubt has me thinking about why I started writing in the first place–and why (or how) I should continue.
Unlike some writers I know, who, at the age of nine, knew they would be a writer, I didn’t decide to write; I was given permission.
I read a lot as a child–mostly comics, Choose Your Own Adventure, and Alfred Hitchcock’s Three Investigators (which is really just the Hardy Boys + 1)–before graduating on to more, ahem, adult stuff: Critchon, King, etc. And eventually the Pennsylvania public school system did its part by introducing me to Shakespeare (the Mel Gibson version), William Golding (the 1963 version), and F. Scott Fitzgerald (the Redford version). But never, in all those years of reading, did I think to myself, “Hey, I can (or should) do this.” I drew penises in the margins of my notebook and called it a day.
I guess I felt the writing profession was some glamorous party you needed to be invited to, and none of the writers I read were encouraging me to crash their party. That is until someone handed me a copy of Cats Cradle. Sure, that same bastard ruined the ending as he passed me the book (“Ooh, this book is so awesome, it ends with…”), but a spoiler couldn’t even ruin that first read. There was something about Vonnegut’s unmistakable voice–the self-deprecating wit, the depth in its simplicity–that made writing fiction seem fun and doable… like it was all just one big goof.*
This realization that Literature doesn’t have to take itself seriously was revelatory. It was like handing a Black Flag cassette to a Zeppelin raised suburban teen–and the moment they realize that leather pants and 20 minute face melting solos are bullshit and that the intensity of youth can be expressed in less than a minute. After an experience like that, there’s only one thing to do: start a band before learning to play an instrument. Which is exactly what I did–and it was a blast not knowing I didn’t know shit.
Since then, I’ve read nearly all of Vonnegut’s work–some multiple times–and though many of the books aren’t as brilliant as they once were, they remind me of why I choose to torture myself with writing: because it’s fun, right? Right?!
I think all of us have writers who inspire us, but how many writers actually ask you to come out and play?
[*Note: I realize a lot of people dislike Vonnegut for the same reasons I love him, but if nothing else, I think we can all agree he said at least 15 things better than anyone else, and he compiled a killer list of writing rules--the first rule, I think, being the most useful: "Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.]
Steve, you really are just grazing the surface of self-doubt; when you ask “…why (or how) I should continue,” you leave out “if,” which is kind of where I’m at.
I’m in the early stages of not-writing recovery, meaning I’m spending a lot of time reading history, dipping my toes in some short fiction every now and then, and not beating myself up over my total lack of inspiration or effort. In any case, I hope to start dabbling in writing again this summer, since I have all that time off. We’ll see.
Good point, Pete. Though I think when my self-doubt reaches the point where I’m questioning “if” I’ll continue to write, I’ll know the answer.
Right now, even though I’m not writing regularly, the guilt of not writing kills me on a daily basis. When that’s gone, I’ll know it’s time to pack it in.
If you ask me (and you didn’t), it sounds like you’ve still got the guilt. Hopefully that’s enough to bring you back to the page this summer.
If I do have the guilt, it is buried deep. The less I think about writing, the happier I get. Though not reading fiction is a big time avoidance scheme. Whenever I do read a stories, I start getting ideas… bad ideas…
I’m not sure if this relates to why you’re not enjoying writing right now Steve, but I worked as an assistant dive instructor for a while and thought about going for the full instructor certification. The reason I didn’t was because a friend and mentor, who was a full instructor, told me that the last thing he wanted to do on his day off was diving. Once it became a job he did everyday, just diving for fun didn’t have the same pull anymore.
I just finished my thesis and feel like it will be a while before I start on an essay again. The thing is that I read a load of books as well as wrote “on command,” but my reading habit hasn’t suffered. I’m really enjoying reading anything I like, not just what’s on my thesis list.
I hope I’m back in the “writing saddle” soon again. My plan is to convince (bribe, threaten, cajole?) some of my fellow graduates to form a nonfiction writing group so that I have artificial deadlines to write towards. That seems to work when I write fiction; I’ve met with a critique group weekly for the last 6 years.
[...] my previous post was not clear enough in its intentions. Instead of portraying myself as a writer full of self [...]
[...] found. Guilt can be a catalyst for action. The most recent cause of my guilt is not replying to Steve Knezovich’s blog post from June 2, 2010 in which he asked, “I think all of us have writers who inspire us, but how many [...]
[...] fun and exciting. I guess I’m still trying to answer Steve Knezovich’s question from June 2nd: “I think all of us have writers who inspire us, but how many writers actually ask you to come out … Carter makes it seem possible to become a standup comedian, and maybe I will succeed at it. More [...]