Seeing as how ‘tis the season of peace and goodwill, I thought I’d end the year on something of an encouraging note.
I recently came across a humorous post on what I and many others wryly call Xitter (and yes, Virginia, I think the X should be pronounced almost as though you’re saying ‘sh’ because that makes the name pretty much accurately describe the state of the Elongated Muskrat’s infamous social media platform nowadays). At least, I think the post was meant to be humorous, though with social media, one can never be quite sure. Of all humanity’s bizarre inventions, social media has got to rank among the weirdest and most toxic. One of the most accurate Tweets I’ve ever seen simply declaimed: ‘Welcome to social media; a person who does not understand humor will be with you shortly’ --- and boy, is that ever accurate.
Anyway, the theoretically humorous post read as follows:
STEPS TO WRITING A BOOK
1) Have an idea
2) Start to write
3) Have a complete mental breakdown and wallow in a pool of anxiety for months
4) Edit a little bit
Now, after having my appreciative little chuckle, I reposted it, along with my own humorous comment, saying the author had forgotten to include the ocean of tears --- I generally like to add pithy little asides to the stuff I repost… because, you know, I’m just a reg’lar laff riot… yep, a real James Thurber, that’s me. (For the benefit of those who don’t understand humor --- and gads, I’ve run into my share of them, he said, rolling his eyes --- that’s a joke, folks. Sheesh.) Then I paused and reflected a moment. I thought the original post humorous and had taken it as such, but then I got to thinking of all the writers out there whom I follow and who follow me, and… I began to wonder whether the post was really meant to be funny.
Because, you know… the angst which seems to exist out there… about an art so many people seem to love, but profess their deepest, heart-rending insecurity about doing. The fear and loathing which seems to accompany the creative act of writing, the self-doubt… and that’s before we even get to the part of the process which involves editing. So many writers seem to hate the entire idea of editing. Gotta say, I find the histrionics a little baffling. Okay, a lot baffling.
When I have an idea… I love the writing process. And the editing process, too, refining and making words sharper and more… well, more. These blog posts are a great example: once I’ve got the idea, which admittedly is the hardest part, I just sit down --- generally on a Sunday afternoon, because I post blog posts on Monday mornings, dontcha know --- and I clackety-clack away and the words pretty much just flow. Usually takes a couple of hours to do the 1000 words or so I aim for, and then we’re done in time for dinner.
Now, look, I get it: the Muse can be a fickle bitch. Some days, she shows up with scads and scads of ideas, fairly tripping over herself to get them all out, but other times, she arrives with a pained look on her face and announces, “not tonight, darling, I’ve got a headache,” and then you’re up the proverbial creek sans paddle. Might as well go and do that load of laundry, ‘cause you ain’t getting too much done on the ol’ WIP for that day.
But when she’s handed you The Idea… the sublime, creative idea… well, carpe diem, folks, carpe diem. And have some confidence in your writing abilities. What’s with all the self-doubt? Have you never experienced the kind of feeling Robert A. Heinlein writes about in his novel Glory Road? The story’s protagonist is selecting weapons, and comes across a bow. Now, he’s no archer, admitting he hasn’t had a bow since he got one as a birthday present when he was young, but he selects the largest, heaviest bow (over the slightly patronizing objection of his groom, who thinks it’s too much bow for a beginner), slips on a bracer (that’s a leather arm guard to protect from the slap of the string), and nocks an arrow:
I didn’t have any hope of hitting that bloody tree; it was fifty yards away and not over a foot thick. I simply intended to sight a bit high up on the trunk and hope that so heavy a bow would give me a flattish trajectory. Mostly I wanted to nock, bend and loose all in one motion as Rufo had done --- to look like Robin Hood even though I was not.
But as I raised and bent that bow and felt the power of it, I felt a surge of exultance --- this tool was right for me! We fitted.
I let fly without thinking.
My shaft thudded a hand’s breadth from his.
There you are: I felt a surge of exultance --- this tool was right for me! We fitted. Well said, Bob. I felt that way right from the first time I stood in front of a class of hormonal adolescents as a young student teacher: the exultance of knowing I could do this, that I fitted. That I was good at this. And I felt that way right up until I retired, after nearly 35 years in the classroom.
Writing’s like that, too… when I have The Idea. Have you never read back over something you’ve written and thought, damn, that’s not bad at all? I know what part of the problem is: there’s so much out there, it’s truly intimidating to think that anyone would want to read the words we’ve written. And I think getting our words out there to a wider audience has got to be the biggest hurdle any writer has to overcome. But many famous, beloved authors have tales about how many rejections they endured before their words made it out into the world.
As the saying goes, someday you’re going to write someone’s favourite book.
I recently came across a humorous post on what I and many others wryly call Xitter (and yes, Virginia, I think the X should be pronounced almost as though you’re saying ‘sh’ because that makes the name pretty much accurately describe the state of the Elongated Muskrat’s infamous social media platform nowadays). At least, I think the post was meant to be humorous, though with social media, one can never be quite sure. Of all humanity’s bizarre inventions, social media has got to rank among the weirdest and most toxic. One of the most accurate Tweets I’ve ever seen simply declaimed: ‘Welcome to social media; a person who does not understand humor will be with you shortly’ --- and boy, is that ever accurate.
Anyway, the theoretically humorous post read as follows:
STEPS TO WRITING A BOOK
1) Have an idea
2) Start to write
3) Have a complete mental breakdown and wallow in a pool of anxiety for months
4) Edit a little bit
Now, after having my appreciative little chuckle, I reposted it, along with my own humorous comment, saying the author had forgotten to include the ocean of tears --- I generally like to add pithy little asides to the stuff I repost… because, you know, I’m just a reg’lar laff riot… yep, a real James Thurber, that’s me. (For the benefit of those who don’t understand humor --- and gads, I’ve run into my share of them, he said, rolling his eyes --- that’s a joke, folks. Sheesh.) Then I paused and reflected a moment. I thought the original post humorous and had taken it as such, but then I got to thinking of all the writers out there whom I follow and who follow me, and… I began to wonder whether the post was really meant to be funny.
Because, you know… the angst which seems to exist out there… about an art so many people seem to love, but profess their deepest, heart-rending insecurity about doing. The fear and loathing which seems to accompany the creative act of writing, the self-doubt… and that’s before we even get to the part of the process which involves editing. So many writers seem to hate the entire idea of editing. Gotta say, I find the histrionics a little baffling. Okay, a lot baffling.
When I have an idea… I love the writing process. And the editing process, too, refining and making words sharper and more… well, more. These blog posts are a great example: once I’ve got the idea, which admittedly is the hardest part, I just sit down --- generally on a Sunday afternoon, because I post blog posts on Monday mornings, dontcha know --- and I clackety-clack away and the words pretty much just flow. Usually takes a couple of hours to do the 1000 words or so I aim for, and then we’re done in time for dinner.
Now, look, I get it: the Muse can be a fickle bitch. Some days, she shows up with scads and scads of ideas, fairly tripping over herself to get them all out, but other times, she arrives with a pained look on her face and announces, “not tonight, darling, I’ve got a headache,” and then you’re up the proverbial creek sans paddle. Might as well go and do that load of laundry, ‘cause you ain’t getting too much done on the ol’ WIP for that day.
But when she’s handed you The Idea… the sublime, creative idea… well, carpe diem, folks, carpe diem. And have some confidence in your writing abilities. What’s with all the self-doubt? Have you never experienced the kind of feeling Robert A. Heinlein writes about in his novel Glory Road? The story’s protagonist is selecting weapons, and comes across a bow. Now, he’s no archer, admitting he hasn’t had a bow since he got one as a birthday present when he was young, but he selects the largest, heaviest bow (over the slightly patronizing objection of his groom, who thinks it’s too much bow for a beginner), slips on a bracer (that’s a leather arm guard to protect from the slap of the string), and nocks an arrow:
I didn’t have any hope of hitting that bloody tree; it was fifty yards away and not over a foot thick. I simply intended to sight a bit high up on the trunk and hope that so heavy a bow would give me a flattish trajectory. Mostly I wanted to nock, bend and loose all in one motion as Rufo had done --- to look like Robin Hood even though I was not.
But as I raised and bent that bow and felt the power of it, I felt a surge of exultance --- this tool was right for me! We fitted.
I let fly without thinking.
My shaft thudded a hand’s breadth from his.
There you are: I felt a surge of exultance --- this tool was right for me! We fitted. Well said, Bob. I felt that way right from the first time I stood in front of a class of hormonal adolescents as a young student teacher: the exultance of knowing I could do this, that I fitted. That I was good at this. And I felt that way right up until I retired, after nearly 35 years in the classroom.
Writing’s like that, too… when I have The Idea. Have you never read back over something you’ve written and thought, damn, that’s not bad at all? I know what part of the problem is: there’s so much out there, it’s truly intimidating to think that anyone would want to read the words we’ve written. And I think getting our words out there to a wider audience has got to be the biggest hurdle any writer has to overcome. But many famous, beloved authors have tales about how many rejections they endured before their words made it out into the world.
As the saying goes, someday you’re going to write someone’s favourite book.
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