There have been a few posts around the lit blogosphere in the past few days about the significance of story; that writing in itself is worth the time and effort and something that should be done regardless of hopes for publication. It is all about art I have been reading and I get that - we all get that but at the risk of sounding petulant I must confess that for me, it's not.
I'd like to be published.
I have been writing about Alaska aviation for eight years. At first it was academic articles spun from my thesis but by 2003 I was actively translating my experiences into fiction. The first book, the novel, was done in 2006 and the second, the memoir, was completed just this year. I have spent eight years on this subject and I know it. It is my life. It is, in terms of creatvity, damn near my everything.
It's pretty much all I've been doing for a very long time.
I honestly don't know if this is art anymore. I'm working on rewrites for the novel right now because it is weak (especially when compared to the memoir). But I look at those pages and I know that my memoir is sitting out there somewhere not getting read and I can't help but think that the novel will also sit unread on impressive desks at impressive publishing houses and I wonder what is the point.
The whole create for the sake of creating thing is just not working for me right now.
I am spending too much time on reviews, too much time thinking about interviews, too much time writing things that are not related in any way shape or form to the novel. But when I write these things I get a response - I get instant feedback. I accomplish something measurable and real. It's nice to write something that matters to other people. It's nice to know that I can still write something of quality - no matter how small a piece of writing it might be.
The book - the books, the recently started short story, the set aside YA urban fantasy - everything else is just art. And I'm having trouble justifying time for art when after so many years it shows no sign of being valued by anyone other than myself.
I know that should be enough - that I value it - but it isn't what I need anymore. I have written a lot, I have signed with a good agent at a good house, I have seen my polished memoir manuscript go out into the world and now, as winter sets in, I have nothing left to do but wait. I'm trying to think like an artist but it's hard; it's hard to think of anything but what has yet to be.
The waiting is the longest part of writing, I think. It is a winter that does not seem to go away.
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November 26
2008
03:19 AM
What a evocatively stark picture.
I spent ten years writing faithfully and wondering what the point was, feeling guilty for not working full-time and wondering why this writing thing consumed me when so many other people seemed to be going on and having normal (or more normal) lives than mine. All I can tell you is that with persistence, the sale will come. For me the trick has been not waiting,, but working. You're fortunate to have an agent already so that the waiting and pitching is someone else's problem, and you're not having to hang around the mailbox and get to know the people at the post office on a first-name basis. If you get on with the business of writing -- telling one person (or one version of yourself at whatever time of life)a story that they need to hear, and not worrying about high concepts such as Art, I think you'll be happier, and you'll be honing your craft. Not everything you put out will be a heartbreaking work of staggering genius, but the more you write, the better you'll get, and the closer the goal of publication will be.
I feel ya -- the waiting is really, really hard. So, don't wait. Write a story you want to read, and ignore the rest. Consider yourself lucky to be able to find the time.