“It’s become fashionable these days to say that the writer writes because he is not whole: he has a wound, he writes to heal it. But who cares if the writer is not whole? Of course the writer is not whole, or even particularly well. There’s something unwholesome and self-destructive about the entire writing process…
…Writers when they’re writing live in a spooky, clamorous silence, a state somewhat like the advanced stages of prayer but without prayer’s calming benefits.”
Quote from Why I Write – Thoughts on the Craft of Fiction edited by Will Blythe. This particular excerpt is from Uncanny the Singing That Comes from Certain Husks by Joy Williams.
I have been eating up this collection of 26 essays on why one writes. I am perilously close to the end of the book and think I’ll just flip back to the front and start over.
Blessedly, this is not a how-to write book. Seriously. How can anyone tell you how to write, except to say, JUST DO IT. Certainly, technique can be shown, grammar rules taught and syntax corrected, but the why of it is, to me, the more interesting bit.
And so, like a dying man (or in my case, a perimenopausal-hyper-ventilating-sleep-deprived-woman) clinging to a raft in a sea of unknowingness, I clutch at the words in this book, strap on floatation device sentences from writers that seem to know what they’re talking about and then…
I cautiously pull up Scrivener and tap my way forward through the dark cyber sea. The words from Why I Write sink into the depths and I am left with a laptop-shaped-raft that doesn’t float very well, adrift in the nothingness, and to top it all off (!) there are no constellations to light my way on this inky-black ocean.
Instead, the only thing lighting my way is a tiny pulsing cursor. It is not exactly a North Star.
During that (almost daily) fragile time, I try very hard to not ask myself why. Instead, I just keep feeling my way, trying not to think, trying not to succumb to that dark interior voice that tells me none of it matters and to give it up.
I know this sounds melodramatic and tragic and perhaps even a little sad, but it’s not. There is something invigorating and satisfying when I ignore all the distractions and my stupid anxieties (Oh my! There’s simply not enough time! – I have to clean the sink!)
Because the other benefit of honouring what I say I want to do is that I have become quite adept at identifying this same kind of bullshit in other areas of my life (exercise, friends, other creative endeavours).
I think this blog post has become a letter to that naysaying smaller part of me.
At the risk of sounding a little multiple-personality disorder-ish, I just want to say to myself, I’m SO onto me and my frantic attempts to make me quit. Go away!
It’s just too bad that me & I have to share the same body.
I think I might have mentioned previously that I’m a Gemini? It seems worth noting for some reason…
Related articles
- ‘Good Writing Never Soothes or Comforts’: Joy Williams on Writing (theatlantic.com)
- Joy Williams on Why Writers Write (brainpickings.org)
You know I haven’t been writing lately and I miss that big inky black sea; I love the searchy graspy part of going into that space. So well put, as you always do. When I read your blog I am always reinspired in so many ways. I’ve been cleaning sinks. Time to write. Because.
Dear Miz-Mary-Fellow-Cleaner-of-Sinks. I guess the good news is that our houses are clean 🙂
I’m glad you’re going back ‘in’, it’s always interesting to see what emerges…and I find it easier if I keep at it (NOT that it always happens that way, but still…)
What’s wrong with a clean sink I ask you? Every self respecting Dyck has one!
Barb, Is there any issue in life that scrubbing a sink can’t solve? If I have a shaker of Comet and a thick rag, baby, I’m ready to roll!
I love your similies, metaphors, descriptive writing and perimenopausal angst. As for the menopause, this too shall pass, and you will realize cleaning the sink is not a priority … haha, whenever you say something like that, it reminds me of your mother.
As a fellow Gemini, I salute you!
Dear Fellow-Gemini, I’m glad you enjoyed my metaphors-gone-mad 🙂 As for the sink? It is amazing what becomes a ‘priority’ when I’m creatively exploring ways to avoid the very thing I say that I want to do more than anything…yup, most assuredly a passed-down maternal Dyck trait. Still working at shaking that one off my back!
So much gnashing about writing – a whole industry of books on how to get yourself to sit down and write them! This one, tho, looks interesting – but I have to admit I am not too curious about how or why others write – maybe because I know now why I do it. I write because I’m better at it than I am at life.
Ah Sarah…do you really think you’re better at writing than life?? Couldn’t we call it a draw? Your life looks pretty darned alright from this angle 🙂
I think what I love about this book is the different descriptions of what it is like for other writers…and we’re not talking just the angsty bits (which I admit I seem to be drawn to) but the fabulous ways they try to nail down the mysteriousness of it. I think just about all of them admit to being woefully inadequate at actually being able to describe how it works, but they get close, and I find that very illuminating.