Here’s my [fiction] writing routine these days:
Go to Starbucks. Take as much time as possible to buy soy latte and scone. Sit down at table, open laptop and Word. Stare at big white space on computer screen. Use latte and scone as excuse not to start typing. Try very hard not to open Firefox. Open Firefox. Log on to free internet and surf. Chastise self. Close Firefox. Stare at screen. Take about one hour to type three to four sentences. Erase them. Wash, rinse, repeat until allotted writing time is over. Go home and hate self, writing, the internet, and vampires.
I’m getting a little tired of this routine. It’s very annoying to be at the mercy of one’s fear of sucking. It’s kind of like being a trapped audience when a friend is whining. You can only do it so much before you want to tell them to nut up and get over themselves already because both of you have better things to do with your time.
As we all know, however, fear is a tenacious, egotistical mistress. She doesn’t get outta the bed just because you tell her the missus will be home soon. So I’ve been brainstorming ways to lure her away and so far the best I’ve come up with is to tell myself who cares if my writing sucks if I’m the only one who will ever read it?
It’s not false modesty or undue pessimism to say that the odds are against any book I write being published, regardless of quality. As depressing as that sounds, it’s actually sort of liberating, too. When what others will think is a non-issue, its easier to immerse yourself in the pleasure of writing and your story, to bound along like a husky in the snow.
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There’s a line in the movie (and maybe book, I can’t remember) Fight Club that has always stuck with me.
We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off.
I don’t know about the pissed off part, but I think the rest is true. The last few generations have grown up with the message that celebrity — standing out among the crowd, being recognized, approved of by the majority (if only fleetingly) — is the most crucial part of success, and Hollywood rakes in the dough because they somehow make it seem attainable, even a given.
Kind of like through advertising, the fashion world makes us all think we can be “beautiful” even though most of us realize at some point that we will never, ever meet its [ridiculous] definition, no matter how much of their shit we buy.
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Fear of writing shitty first drafts must be nearly universal among writers because I’ve seen Anne Lamott’s essay on the subject referenced on a million writing blogs.1 Given that she wrote it in 1995 and has several more books under her belt since then, I’d love to read a follow-up essay. Does the fear of artistic suckage ever go away, or are we stuck with it no matter how much we practice?
Maybe it’s a matter of degree, like exercising to change your basic body shape: if you work out consistently, eventually your hips and thighs will ensmallen, which is great. But you’ll still always be a pear, just a smaller pear.
A sleek, healthy, kick-ass pear. One could certainly do worse.
- Including mine. [↩]