Nothing to Show

I often tell myself that if I had little to no ambition, I’d live a pretty pleasant life. I’d clean and read and complete my errands with a smile. Maybe I’d garden a little, or bake. I wouldn’t have this haunting dream of mine hanging over me like a cloud.

This spring, I made—what was for me, at least—a brave decision. I decided that, despite my lack of income for the summer, I would use some of our savings to put my kids in morning summer camp so I could write. Anyone who has spent time at home with her or his kids knows how blissful that small break of preschool can be, but it comes at a hefty price, especially when you’re making no money from other employment. I was prepared to put all guilt aside, though, and commit the notion of “Jana-as-writer,” to try it on for size. I would not do laundry, or weed the garden, or run to the supermarket. Writing–for only a few hours, three days a week–would be my job.

Over a month into this job, though, I’m discouraged. I have pretty much nothing to show for my toils at the computer. I’ve started too many projects and can’t gain the momentum to finish just one. What do people call this? Attention Deficit Writing Disorder? Once I get excited about something I’m writing, I have to pick up the kids. I’m lucky that one naps and the other plays in his room so I can continue to work, but by that time in the afternoon, I’m tired. I think I deserve an indulgence, and that indulgence tends to be reading. It’s fun, relaxing. Someone else gets to whisk me away with their imaginations so I don’t have to activate mine.  I have a shelf full of books whose covers are begging to be opened. If I abstain from my self-inflicted reading goals, I wonder, would I lose myself in actual writing? Must I break up with Thomas Hardy and Ann Patchett so that writing becomes my compulsion instead?

If this is the life of a writer who aspires to be published, I’m in for a long and dirty road. Here is what I’ve done so far:

I revised an old story and submitted it to a fiction contest I won’t know anything about until September.

I looked at another short story that needs work, and then decided to pursue that later.

I started a memoir and decided I really don’t want to write a memoir.

I wrote a short parenting article, and then rewrote it as a list. (Parents, I’m told, love lists.) I’m waiting to hear if it will be accepted.

I returned to a short story I started two years ago, and worked on a couple of scenes to hopefully develop it into a novel. It’s a complete mess.

I’ve jotted things down in my journal, like dreams and thoughts and reflections and observations, under the heading IDEAS.

I started a personal essay I was really excited about for a week, then read it again and thought it was crap, so decided to copy all of the lyrics of Radiohead’s album The Bends into a blank document, for inspiration. (Since then, I have not been inspired.)

I started another personal essay that I’m now in the middle of, but with my track record, I’m not holding my breath that I’ll finish it.

I wrote a new short story idea down on a blank piece of paper and then deleted it.

I read blog posts from my new favorite blog, Beyond the Margins, and listened to a lot of interviews with writers on NPR, who very helpfully complain that writing is messy and hard and has very little extrinsic reward. But they’re published writers. Being interviewed on NPR.

I wrote a blog post about Pantry Moths so that I could detach myself from the reality of having them in my kitchen. It worked a little.

I pondered the merits of writing in different environments. If I’m home, I’ll be distracted by domesticities, like pantry moths. (M-effers, all of them.) At a coffee shop, I’ll at least be surrounded by the hustle and bustle of other computer-gazing people. It gives me something to look at, makes me feel like a part of the world beyond my dining room. But the coffee shop closest to me leaves me smelling like Pike Place Roast for the rest of the day and makes coffee stronger than Ironman, so I tend to boycott it. The one I really like is 12 minutes away and puts me in rush hour traffic, making me lose at least 25 minutes of writing time. The community library is free and quiet and has people, but doesn’t open until 10 a.m. (Friggin’ budget cuts!) I still haven’t decided on a place, and the clock is ticking.

Much of my anxiety is probably due to the excuses I’ve made in the past about finding the time to write. I could write something great, I thought, if only I had the time. Now, I’m giving myself time, and I fear I won’t now—or ever—write something great.

At least when I’m finished this post, I’ll click “publish” and in less than a minute, I’ll have completed something.

Have any writerly advice for me?

Be Sociable, Share!

• 

Tagged as: Ann Patchett, NPR, Radiohead, Thomas Hardy