Writing my third novel is more difficult than the first and the second. Not because I’m not inspired or don’t want to work, but because a bit of time has passed since I finished my last novel, and writing something better leaves me questioning anything I write. I don’t strive for perfection, and I’d be hard-pressed to believe anyone does. But I remind myself of my loves – Salinger, Capote, Plath, to name a few, and know how demanding they were of themselves. It’s what made their words sing. When Plath wrote, “I can taste the tin of the sky – the real tin thing/Winter dawn is the color of metal” – I feel a simultaneous jolt of envy and revelation. The words are balanced so delicately, so naturally.
If you are a writer, the words are also supposed to come pouring out of you like a waterfall of insightful phrases, an unstoppable deluge of commentary on the human condition. The pressure is fantastic. Not to mention that you are scribbling these bits of genius on bar napkins, old underwear, brown paper bags or anywhere else you may be where your talent interrupts your every day life and by God, you have to write.
Well, I’ve rarely experienced any of this. Ideas and phrases come to me, yes. But I find myself literally sitting down and thinking instead of writing. Of the many types of writing processes that exist, I find that I need to sketch out my path before I can go for a stroll. Some writers just get high or drink to help them along, which I commend – I’m far too silly when I indulge in those sorts of things, and it becomes difficult to focus. I have great respect for the writer who can settle into their writing space and pick up where they left off. Perhaps that is the mark of a seasoned writer – I don’t know.
The struggle of writing this third novel forces my hand to write short stories – a temporary and satisfying diversion. Temporary for the obvious reason that it doesn’t take me nearly as long to write, and satisfying because I have completed something that I am more pleased with than not. There is also the lovely possibility of the piece being accepted and published. It reminds me of when I was in high school and how I would avoid studying for a test or writing a term paper by spontaneously cleaning the kitchen or rearranging my small collection of books. Inevitably, the paper would be written or the notes would be studied, not always yielding the finest results due to my procrastination.
I hope that is not the case with this novel. As excited as I am to write it, I am equally terrified. It is like finding the one key that fits the lock of a door I need to desperately open. What if the key fits, but doesn’t turn? That sudden elation followed by the sharp, ultimate certainty of failure.
(One day since my post went up)
I am adding on here in hopes of ending on a brighter note, which is the obvious fact that I love to write. And similar to many writers, I need to write. Last year I was invited to teach a writing workshop by Alan Semerdjian, a writer and musician I am very fond of, and during a panel discussion one of the students asked me, “Why do you write?” And I responded, “When I don’t write for a while I start to feel itchy, like I’m keeping secrets from my best friend.” I remind myself of that when an idea occurs to me, because I know the idea is moments away from being sketched out into something tangible and hopefully significant.