“Are you writing?” someone asks. “Oh, not really. Just the blog.” And I change the subject.
I began this blog three and a half years ago, and have posted about 90 short essays. I used to write one a week. I switched to every other week because the non-stop deadline was too much pressure. Then I switched to monthly, to make space and time for my novel.
The blog posts come easily, though I work hard on each one. When a subject occurs to me, I throw all my random thoughts onto the page. Each thought leads to another, and in a few hours I have a first draft. Then comes a bit of research, a lot of revision, and the fun of finding illustrations.
Writing the blog is satisfying. I figure out what I think. I feel no anxiety; I am completely confident that ideas will come, and that I will be pleased with the final product. I get gratifying responses on Facebook and in Comments. No one ever writes a negative comment - I suppose that people who don’t like my writing simply go away.
So when you ask me if I’m writing, why do I say “Not really”? It puzzles me. I AM writing.
Woman Writing, by guess who? image:wikiart.org
It’s true I like fiction better than anything; I like a long, engrossing novel that opens up a well-inhabited world. But it’s not merely that I want to create what I love. I’ve already done that. I’m very fond of my three completed novels.
A well-inhabited world. Children's Games by Bruegel the Elder. image: en.wikipedia.org
I want to be read. But the funny thing is, my blog does get read. I usually seem to have about 150 readers. In the blogosphere that’s not even peanuts; it’s more like teeny black lentils. Still, I love knowing I’m being read and appreciated. Like most of us, I want people to love me and think I’m wonderful. (Comments which say you already love me and I am wonderful will not pass muster with the comment moderator.)
So it’s not enough that I’ve written three novels, and I regularly write likeable essays. It doesn’t count. I’m afraid I also want to be validated by the Voice of the Fathers. I wish I didn’t, but my father and his ilk had very loud voices.
Dad's ilk. image:bizarrevictoria.livejournal.com
A Father may be a brother. My late brother Dickie, a prominent book critic, told me my first novel was a page-turner. “I mean that as a compliment,” he said, but I knew my novel was not to his very complex and elevated taste. A few years later he called me to rave delightedly and in gratifying detail about my blog. “I think you’ve found your form,” he said. Ouch.
are miniatures my form? igavelauction.com
A Father can even be a woman. Any publisher is a Father, and I’m currently courting a small publisher run by a wonderful woman. I'd cut off my pinkie to be published by that house, except that it would hurt.
I want the recognition that publication brings. Not that the world will recognize me. I have no delusions, though I have all the usual Terry Gross-Pulitzer-Major Motion Picture fantasies when I get a nibble from an agent or publisher. But I want to hear the voice of the Fathers saying, “Yes, this is worthy. You are a writer.”
Maybe I want to write novels because it is so challenging. The Fathers, as you can see from the illustration, are earnest Victorians. If it’s not hard it doesn’t count. "Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?" Maybe in heaven I’ll finish my fourth novel.
Some writers love writing the first draft and hate revising. Not me. I love revising, because it comes easily. I am confident in my editorial instincts, and very decisive. I rarely dither. But to write a first draft is to create something out of almost nothing. My novels begin with an image that floats up to me - a baby lies abandoned behind a dumpster; a woman sees a man behind her reflected in a window; a sinkhole opens suddenly under a house raised on pilings. I follow the image and years later I have a bunch of characters carrying on and creating a story.
It sounds simple, but every day of working on the first draft is like standing at the edge of a cliff and looking out into a great empty space. I throw little ideas into the darkness, hoping one will shine and cast some light. I make small desperate noises as I write a first draft. Worse, I often fall asleep.
Still, even though it’s excruciating, it’s what I want to do. I hoped that if I dug around in my psyche to find the root of this foolishness, I could pull it up and be done with it. But this attempt at writing therapy hasn’t succeeded. Even as I work on this post, I decide I’ll finish this, and the second one about Argentina, and the one about the HOME Van. I’ll get them all into the queue for posting and I won’t have another one due till the beginning of May. Then I can go back to my real writing, the writing that counts.
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(I'VE SWITCHED BACK TO THE OLD COMMENT SYSTEM - THE NEW ONE I TRIED SEEMED TO SWALLOW COMMENTS.)
NEXT POST: MAY 8
There is absolutely no question that you are a writer -- and a very good one. I love reading your posts. I didn't even know about your novels, but I'd like to read them too. And I suspect you don't give yourself enough credit ... having a "Father" like Dickie peeking over your shoulder can not have been easy, as he did have rather specific, elevated taste that simply did not apply to many kinds of writing. So go for it -- keep standing on that cliff!
Posted by: Margot Witty | 04/03/2015 at 10:27 AM
Margot, thanks so much! I'm not back on the first draft cliff just yet, but I AM taking four days next week at a funky little motel in Cross Creek, where Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings lived, for a solitary writer's retreat, to revise my first novel. I am extremely excited - the first time I've tried this. If it works, I'll do it a few times a year (it's only 60/night).
Posted by: The Feminist Grandma | 04/03/2015 at 11:36 AM
You are wonderful and I already love you - I dare you to censor me. Also, your description of writing -of the images that float into your consciousness, of standing at the edge of an abyss - so so true - a perfect description of the writing process.
Posted by: arupa | 04/03/2015 at 07:33 PM
I commented that I love your description of the writing process but it disappeared. Will it reappear? You seem to have one tough censor. arupa
Posted by: arupa | 04/03/2015 at 07:34 PM
although as your sister i sometimes don't like you and occasionally think you are a poopy-head, arupa is right.
this is one of the best descriptions of the writing process i've read. unlike the comments i used to get: "ya know, if i just had more time i'd write a novel." and "how long did it take you to type that?" and "my mother loves my writing; could you give me your agent's address?"
ya just have ta laff, right?
luli
Posted by: luli gray | 04/04/2015 at 12:21 PM
Arupa and Luli:
The comment system seems to discriminate randomly. I was unable to post a reply to Arupa this AM. Hope this will work. I'm thrilled (and impressed by myself) that two experienced writers think I've captured the process. When I read Arupa's comment, I suddenly pictured writers all over Gainesville peering into their abysses, and it made me laugh. Or laff, as Luli so twee-ly puts it. Love you both. And I'm NEVER a poopyhead, Ms Doodoobrain.
Posted by: The Feminist Grandma | 04/04/2015 at 12:53 PM