Me: [walks into a confessional booth]
Person behind the screen: Is someone in here? Hello?
Me: Hi. I’m here. Am I supposed to announce myself? My name is P.K.–
Person: You don’t have to tell me your name. It’s fine. How can I help you, my son?
Me: Son? I’m forty-seven, but… sure. Fine. Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It’s been … a really long time since I last confessed.
Person: [sounding annoyed] I can tell. What would you like to confess?
Me: Well… [reads today’s blog aloud:]
Here’s my confession, traitor though I may be to my people: I don’t believe the writer’s struggle is any different from the struggle of most careers. That’s hard to admit. It would feel much better to imagine my obstacles as somehow more romantic, more unique than that of the average worker. If it were, I could believe myself to be a conqueror, a bold and mighty man so daring that I could surmount the most difficult of mountains–those of the starving artist. Instead I’m just… normal. Ew.
Here’s what started these irreverent thoughts, and it’s an unlikely source–I’m reading Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, a highly-praised book that the author describes as instructions on writing and life.
It’s about the writer’s struggle–it is around 10% how to and 90% I get you. The first few chapters are enlightening, and I filled every page with underlines, brackets, and handwritten observations. And indeed, the book is valuable for both writing and life. Ms. Lamott seemed to be speaking directly to me. Me personally, no one else. Read this passage from the first chapter:
“You sit down… You try to sit down at the same time every day. This is how you train your unconscious to kick in for you creatively… You put a piece of paper in the typewriter, or you turn on your computer and bring up the right file, and then you stare at it for an hour or so. You begin rocking, just a little at first, and then like a huge autistic child. You look at the ceiling, and over at the clock, yawn, and stare at the paper again… you try to quiet your mind so you can hear what that landscape or character has to say above the other voices in your mind. The other voices are banshees and drunken monkeys. They are voices of anxiety, judgement, doom, guilt… There may be a Nurse Ratched-like listing of things that must be done right this moment: foods that must come out of the freezer, appointments that must be cancelled or made, hairs that must be tweezed.”
I read this and thought, Holy smokes! That’s me!
She ends this diatribe in a manner that really drove it home for me: “Then the phone rings and you look up at the ceiling with fury… and answer the call politely, with maybe just the merest hint of irritation. The caller asks if you’re working, and you say yeah, because you are.” Wow. Just wow. It felt so familiar.
But then it hit me. Writing, I remembered, isn’t the only thing that makes me feel this way. This is not solely a writer’s thing. This is a theme in everyone’s life–when they’re overwhelmed. Whether or not you love your job, don’t you feel the same thing the very moment you turn on your computer and gaze upon your morning email? Or when you arrive at the job site and it hit you that there is so much to do? You don’t know where to begin and so you just… freeze.
Bird by Bird was written for writers who experience this–at least the first quarter of it is (I haven’t read the whole thing yet). It reminds us to imagine each part of a project as a single bird. Your role then, is to take it bird by bird. One at a time. Catch it, do the work, and let it fly away. But the real value is the sense of community it provides. And the humor she injects doesn’t hurt at all.
I need not go on about the value of the passages. This isn’t a book review, after all. Today I’m just attempting to come to terms with the pressure I feel. That same pressure you feel.
The project that I’m working on is called The Trees Beyond the Field. That’s my novel, and it’s really coming along now. A few weeks ago, I couldn’t have given that same status. There was this one chapter. It was brutal, but essential to the telling of the rest of my story. And so I had to get it right before I could proceed. I was stuck. It interrupted my progress and took more time than I care to admit. It was the end of the second act.
I rewrote that chapter three times–the whole chapter, not just certain parts, but those too. I faced every bit of the mental blockade that Lamott describes–it came down on my head like an Acme-style anvil tossed from a Roadrunner cliff. But guess what: I finished it. And you know what? I like it. For a first draft, it’s pretty damn good, and it set off some really exciting things.
So now I’m free. I’m on act three and enjoying every bit. Really, I’m having fun again. Of course, The Trees Beyond the Field isn’t my only project. Is anything ever, really? I’m also designing the new website. I’m raising kids with my wife. I have friends. I’m camping. I’m working. I’m stressed about politics. I’m writing blogs–and trying to keep politics out of them. I’m dreaming of future novels and writing them down, sometimes outlining them and writing portions of them. Who knows if I’ll ever write them. Heck, I’ve conjured so many ideas, so many gotta-write-it-but-probably-won’t story outlines that if I were a more logical person I’d question why in the world I would heap these things upon my already-full plate. But I’m not a logical person. I’m a writer, damnit.
My point today, if ever I had one, is that we’re all there. We all have our novels that we must write, our Act 2’s to finish, our many projects that feel like anvils. We are all Davids with our tremendous Goliaths and only a slingshot to conquer the champion standing in our way. And will we finish?
Yeah, why not? I mean not all projects will proceed to completion. Sometimes that’s okay. Sometimes bailing out is the better decision. But not today, Satan! (Jeez I sound almost religious today!) The Trees Beyond the Field is not the kind of project that should be left behind, even when my old friend Self-Doubt creeps in.
And in the meantime? I’ll be here, writing down my experiences that are, in reality, universal.
Let’s conquer this giant together.