I made the new banner you see above for me as much as for anyone else. All those verbs that complete the third person sentence “le petit hiboux is…” are there to remind me what I’m doing, and what I’m not doing, which is stagnating. Le petit hiboux is not stagnating.
This is something I’ve had to tell myself a lot recently, in my late-night self-evaluations that turn into complicated, sleep-deprived metaphors. I am not stagnating simply because I’m in the same comfortable, if intellectually-unstimulating, job that I’ve been in since graduation three years ago. I am not stagnating simply because I have made noises in the direction of various master’s degrees without actually applying/accepting any. And most of all, I am not stagnating simply because writing is still like blood-letting from a stone.
One of the complicated metaphors I used, trying to understand my past and future trajectories, is the tale of the Hare and the Tortoise. You know, the Hare that stood at the starting line, derisive and snarky with his confidence in the awesome power of his hind legs, in his god given ability to shoot across the plains in single-digit bounds. And you’ve met the Tortoise, who took the grit and determination as compensation for the total lack of speedy forward trajectory, the Tortoise who didn’t give up in the face of natural propensity towards plodding slowness. And you know who won the race.
See, I’m worried that I’m the Hare, the grasshopper who sang through summer, whatever. That the natural talent I find myself somewhat undeservedly in posession of, when it comes to writing, will be useless if I never write anything. I realized, a year or so ago, that there’s absolutely no point in pretending to desire any other career path, when there’s only one thing I’m good at in the way where I can’t imagine myself NOT doing it. So what, then, am I doing? Will I end up the Hare, knowing all along what a good runner he is, spending most of the race at the pub, bragging about victory while it slips him by?
And then there’s the hunting v. fishing metaphor. What is “trying”? A fisherman sits very quietly at his rod, with only the measly dangling offer held out towards his goal. Coming upon this scene, you could almost call his task fruitless, his sitting a waste of time. But he’s working, isn’t he, you just can’t SEE it. Do you sit around and wait, quietly, for the words to come to you, for the stories to be naturally attracted to your ability to tell them? Or should writers be hunters, stepping carefully though miles of woodland, looking up every tree and turning around every corner? Will the inspiration then be as easy to trap as an enormous deer is to fell, at close range? What’s the path?
The problem with these metaphors, see, is that they don’t give you the answers. Neither do other people, as valiantly and lovingly as they try. My father tells me that a true writer cannot help but put words and ideas down to paper, and needs nothing but a writing utensil and somewhere to write it. He says this in that way that’s uniquely born from his experience as a man who never needed anything but his own legs to stand on and the support of my mother. I don’t need graduate school, he assures me, but if I want it, it’s mine to take.
My mother and brother both tell me the same thing, and have been doing so since I was ickle bitty. “You’re a writer,” they say, “so write.” It’s such simple advice, but such a tiny liferaft when I start wondering if I’ve fooled everyone spectacularly.
“It’s hard work,” my agent (and friend) tells me. She tells me this to reassure me not to run scared away from the path just because it isn’t flowing through my fingers like water. She sends me articles, and lists, and inspiration, on an almost daily basis, and this is overwhelming because it’s a testament to her faith, not my prolific body of work. Which isn’t so much a body as a trembling leaf.
And then there’s Stuart, and while it almost goes without saying that he’s supportive, there’s no putting into words just how far his quiet unconditional support extends. He will hold me to no standard lower than “I am a writer” which is both terrifying and exactly what I need.
But it’s not, in the end, other people. Or should I say, in the beginning. In the beginning, it’s nothing but myself, a blank paper or screen, and my inspiration or lack thereof. What I’ve got, I think, is talent. What I don’t have, I’m sure, is discipline. My parents might just whoop for joy at their daughter finally admitting this about herself, but I have a discipline deficiency. It’s not a total lack, mind. I’ve thrown myself full force at many things I care about: this blog, my friends, the college newspaper, being good at crosswords, falling in love. What logically doesn’t follow is, the one thing I so desperately want to be good at – writing – is the hardest thing for me to actually DO.
None of this is new. Most writers spend a lifetime struggling with how to go from think to do. Like the Hare, however, I’m not used to things I’m good at being difficult. I’m not very good at chasing the carrot – at knowing that through the hard work and the effort, the most worthwhile goal will be achieved. I’ve taken success and talent for granted, is the crux of my new challenge. And as time goes on and the stakes are raised, I’ve got to raise my own game.
The writing life, I’m finding out, won’t be easy. It may be blood-letting from a stone for the rest of my life. Like any relationship, it will have its moments that make me want to fold, and it will have – I hope – such great heights as to keep me in love. Anything that’s worth doing, though, is worth going through the fire for. Perhaps I spend too much time worrying about the second half of that sentence. Perhaps, of all the metaphors I’ve concocted lately, what I’m really looking for is running.
If everything aches while you’re it, you’re pushing yourself and that’s good. If everything feels better once you’ve finished, you’ve succeeded and that’s great.