Today’s Word Count for the Novel: 258,384. 3035 words gone!
Thankful, I am, and not just because it’s a ritual of Thanksgiving. It’s because all I have right now is this moment of writing.
Writers are the sort who rise with stories on the brain and wander through the day seeing stories in everyone else. Writers invent new outcomes to events and wrestle with what if’s no one else bothers to indulge. It’s a natural state of imagining and analyzing, a tendency that feels just right to those of us blessed with it. If you are called to write, you do it easily as breathing some days. That’s the Muse – the genetic fire starter. (We won’t get into what drives revision — maybe sheer will and our better angels?)
I attended a talk by Tom Wolfe a few years ago to hear him confess he despises writing. He said it was a source of torment. It made me wonder if I wasn’t missing something, the horrors of a boot camp never attended. Perhaps I’d squirmed my way out of duty? Since then, I’ve decided that I will define my writing process. I may not make it as a card-carrying member of the Suffering Writer Clan, since I’m not sure my slogging through crytiques, rejections, and years will measure up unless I hated every second. But that’s okay, because I’m happy. I really love this gig.
I love disappearing into language and story. It’s the same fun as storytelling at age nine, when I invented new people and landscapes for the sake of fun and games. Today there’s still no end to ideas and creating. As a teacher, I’ve celebrated this ability in all of us, the infinite and abundant creativity we all possess. That’s why the scarcity model of some artists and many critics – those who feel compelled to slam others’ work and reinforce hierarchies – doesn’t make sense. Yes, there should be a measure of quality. Yes, not just anyone can write a classic or join the canon. Let’s keep standards and celebrate the greats. But there is enough money, attention, and enjoyment to go around. It’s okay for us all to love writing.
So if writing is my cornucopia, my feast this Thanksgiving, I don’t have to peer much beyond all the fruit and fowl spilling out to see what I’ve taken for granted. I have time to write. I have eyes-ears-fingers to make the recording easier; the story of Jean-Dominique Bauby and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly should humble us all. I have belief in my writing, even when others may not. I also have a writers’ community of support – both former and current friends who have guided me along the path. Finally, I am grateful for family and husband who get why I write. Thank you to all of them.
So in this spirit of thankfulness, I refuse to define my writing success by a big book contract. I refuse to rail against myself for not having finished the novel years ago. I am thankful that this year I’m in a third draft of it; that two short stories were finalists in contests this year; that one short story was accepted to a journal. If today’s work is a joy, a chance to disappear into the fiction I’ve created and make it better, then why give myself fits? We will write no novel before its time. What’s Your Hurry, my husband sings. Is it worth your worried mind? When it’s over, it won’t matter. Tell me, are you satisfied?
Today’s Writing Goal: Continue editing up to page 450, cutting words, and removing any passages that slow momentum.