In which we are listless...

[jesshartley]

I'm reading a new book, called "Finding the courage to write" or some such statement... It's basically about the idea that the vast majority of good writing (by his definition) is a process wrought with fear and anxiety. It's a very interesting read, describing the almost incapacitating fear that writers like E.B. White went through in producing their works, and definately gives me a sense of belonging to the community of "writers".

One of the points that he makes in the book is that many of us who write fear being unveiled as frauds, being revealed as not the authorative wordsmiths and experts on life that we present ourselves to be by virtue of being willing to commit ideas (any ideas, really) down on paper for others to see. There is a feeling of presumption inherent in committing one's thoughts to paper, and that feeling is only magnified by the audacity of sharing it with others or (gasp) presuming that one could or should be paid for it.

So much of this book has really spoken to me. Of the fear of not being a "real" writer, of never being certain I chose just the "right" word. It's interesting to have even a one-sided conversation with someone about the topic. I have several friends who write for a living, but none are folks that I've spent much time with, at least not recently, and I feel... alienated? If I pursue more frequent friendship with them now, I worry that they will feel used or like I'm trying to horn in on their "real" careers as writers (when I'm obviously just a hack... there's that "fear of being unveiled" going off again) It's not that, I think logically, but more that I feel like I have a bit more in common with them now (although still a serious case of hero-worship in all four cases I can think of off the top of my head).

Seeking a sense of community, I went to my first "writers group" last night. Found it on line, and... well, I don't know what I really had in mind when I prepped for it. A half dozen to a dozen people of various ages who wrote, I guess. I made business cards and printed out copies of work I'd done in a variety of genres. As proverbial armor, I even brought along copies of Renaissance Magazine that had used my work, to steel myself as a "real" writer.

When I arrived there, the only person present at the library meeting room appeared to be a very emaciated looking Asian boy in a dress. Sarah was her name, and she was very difficult to talk to, in part because of a strong asian accent, in part because she seemed so nervous as to make me feel like I was the hostess and her the uncomfortable newcomer. I tried various techniques of breaking the ice (asking her about her work, asking her open-ended questions about the group, etc)... Most of them were met with very short answers, until she got warmed up talking smack about the rest of the group, specifically the folks who had organized it or used to run it. Then she suddenly became more than willing to elaborate, and I now know more about the former leader's personal and sex lives than I will /ever/ have use for.

It was a very bizarre evening.

I waited for a while, then made a hasty retreat back to my car.

I'm feeling... well, the book described it as post partum depression, and I can really see the comparison. This thing that was the focus of my days, that occupied the vast majority of my thoughts and efforts, that I felt I had to steal time away from to do anything else... is gone. It's out of my house, and I'm powerless to do anything to make certain its new room-mate will make sure its well cared for. I thought I'd be thrilled, thought I'd revel in having more time to myself again. Instead, I go to the library and bring home literally a double armful of books on writing and publishing. I'm already trying to decide between a handful of new projects, everything from more write-for-hire work to a couple of different styles of children's books to a murder mystery to a non-fiction book. And I don't even really /want/ to string my loom. I want to write something else, produce something else, prove that I'm not less of a writer for using others characters and world.

I said to a friend that I wasn't good at doing something just to do it, I want to have a reason, a goal, a purpose... Maybe that's what I'm lacking right now.

Comments

[wtfbrain.livejournal.com]

Can you let me know the title of the book? It sounds like something I'd like to/need to read...

[wtfbrain.livejournal.com]

Thanks. Will have to look it up.

[jesshartley.livejournal.com]

"The Courage to Write: How Writers Transcend Fear" by Ralph Keyes

I really enjoyed the first chapter or two. The rest was... good, but didn't speak to me as deeply as the first couple did.

Good luck! It's a good read!

[wtfbrain.livejournal.com]

Hmm. Same reply from two different usernames. Odd.

[jesshartley.livejournal.com]

I'm trying to keep my personal and my "professional" sites seperate, for privacy issues. Sometimes, however, I forget that I'm logged in as one, and reply to something that belongs in the other, then have to go back and delete the comment.

Just me being weird. :)

[wtfbrain.livejournal.com]

Ah. No problem. :)