A tiny rant with a hopeful ending
When the Writing Process Turns Ugly
Keeping our spirits up when the world lets us down
Writers write, but what we write, is supposed to be about what readers want to read.
We’re supposed to know somehow. Understood the drums beating in the distance and deciphered what they meant. Then put it all down on paper, served it up to our readers, and waited for the accolades.
Only sometimes, most times, they don’t come. They get lost on their way to our hearts and end up as broken pieces of this and that, that we pass on the way to our next story.
Writing sucks at times. It feels like life is being drained out of one, and for what? For 15 people to walk by, spend a few minutes reading, and leave. Where’s the fun in that?
And then we have a bad day, not writing-wise, but in how we see the world. How we hear the people entering our headspace as we drive to work. Their whines, their discontent and it rattles us. Makes us weary and on edge and our writing shows it.
We write about subjects like injustice and war and rising prices and people sneer and shift uncomfortably in their chairs. Grab their phones, send a text, and then pretend that it was okay with a Like. Then off they go.
They were looking for fun and games and we gave them the rising price of eggs and painful breakups.
We were supposed to know what they wanted today. We were supposed to be uplifting. Help set the tone for their day. Not put them on edge. Not make them drink that third cup of coffee just to get up out of the chair.
But then there’s this thing called life. This never-ending timeless deathless stream of consciousness that started in the beginning and continues into wherever and we track it. And engage with it. And somehow, someway are supposed to be one with it and get it right, every single time.
Make our words mean something just when they needed to read them. And when they don’t. When the cosmic dust that rains down on our typewrites and enters our cells and comes back out as words miss the mark, we get sideways glances and rolling eyes as they gather up their allotment of time and trundle off to another writer and spend it all with them.
The word unfair comes to mind. Along with what the fuck and you’ve got to be kidding because we know, that there was no effort on our part to not give them what they wanted. It’s not like we got the word and decided, no way, I’m going to write about the failure of the judiciary and the hell with recipes and long walks with my springer spaniel and snowflakes that bear a striking resemblance to Martha Stewart.
Yeah, writers are sons of bitches, who tinker with syntax and throw in lots of adverbs and wayward adjectives and prattle on about subjects that no one wants to read about, because we like filling up the ether with wasted syllables and go back to our homes, a little more broken, a little less alive.
Writers write, then they wait. For the heralds to cry out their admiration. To sound the bells of happiness and dance through the streets. To tell us they approve.
But many of us, the vast majority of scribblers who toil in backrooms and makeshift offices, sharing space with brooms and vacuum cleaners and Uncle Tony’s unused set of golf clubs, believe we’re doing god’s work or near enough.
Bringing cheer and elucidation. Bringing wisdom so our painful breakup experiences might deter you from making the same mistakes.
And we continue. We wake up and do it again. Why? Because we don’t have a choice.
Somewhere back in time, shortly after sperm met egg and genes were exchanged and blueprints were quickly unrolled, read, rewritten, and rewired, this desire, this need to write got woven into the very fabric of who we are and we’ve been dragged along kicking and screaming ever since.
Not like we can shout — stop! the car. Not like we haven’t tried. Give up the keyboard like an addict giving up Oxy.
Cold turkey. Sweating it out under blankets while the fucking monitor blinks on and off like a siren calling out our names.
It didn’t work. We got up groggy and in pain — physical, spiritual, mental, it doesn’t matter which and sat back down, pajama top swung wrong ways around us, and started pounding on the keys again, telling our side of trickle-down economics and why it doesn’t work. Telling the world — you gotta want to hear your partner and be honest.
Even when the reader, that large unrelenting cohort out there is eager for something different. Wants something that will give them a boost, make them feel lighter, help them get past the lingering aftereffects of an argument with their boyfriend last night
All of which was determined six minutes before they clicked on our story. Two minutes after exiting the bathroom and flipping on the coffee maker. One minute before they sat down, head in hand, scrolling for the first time that morning.
Yeah, we’re supposed to know.
Supposed to be current. Informative, but not too. Funny, but not silly.
Appreciate that someone came to read but not fawning or supercilious. Just right.
And if we don’t. If we missed the mark, didn’t read the memo to the end. Didn’t hear the call coming in at 3 AM, then we get to feel that glorious emptiness as it passes through us like a large extinction-worthy asteroid ripping through the solar system.
Close enough for us to see life as we know it, drifting away, but far enough away to give us another chance to do it all over again.
But we don’t stop, do we? We’ve been forewarned. We sat next to the tree once on Christmas morning with just one gift, an awkwardly wrapped shovel with our name on it, and ever hopeful wondered if there was another hiding somewhere in the discarded papers.
Yes, we’re thick-headed and obviously thick-skinned and when smarts were handed out at the beginning, we got our fair share of grammar and syntax but seemed to have missed the bits about self-preservation and happiness.
But that’s okay. We’re honest folk. Most of us. We know that six-figure checks may never mingle with bills and flyers from Walmart in our mailbox shaped like the Titanic. And that’s okay. Well, not really, but we’ve adapted.
Like those born at an altitude of 15,000 feet learn to live with less oxygen, we’ve learned to live without certain emotions. Like elation and complete satisfaction. We exist in between these things.
Like those aliens on an old episode of Star Trek living in a dimension between ours and theirs and trying desperately to be heard. To get our attention.
Yes, we’ve adapted. We can survive on a single piece of dried toast; one egg every third day and a cup of weak tea and still write. Still stand before the keyboard, blinking tears out of our eyes, and write something meaningful, while our breathing is shallow and our mind labors to get it right.
But don’t feel sorry for us. Please! Don’t do that. Don’t look at us with sympathy dripping and think — poor babies.
No. If that’s how you feel, keep moving. Stop at the next house. The guy sipping on a smoothie, wearing an Abercrombie and Fitch hoodie, and read his stuff.
Then tomorrow, when you have a moment between break and lunch; between dinner and putting the kids to bed, give us another shot. We may not have written exactly what you need, but that’s okay. We may just introduce you to a stranger. Someone you had no idea you needed to know.
Someone who looks different and sounds different and wears tie-dyed tee shirts with a goatee that needs work but speaks from the heart is funny and makes you forget about the Christmas decorations on the front lawn, even though it’s now March.
Writers write and, in all likelihood, we’ll keep on writing until we no longer can. And that will usually mean one of two things.
Our abilities to do so have deteriorated to such an extent that we can no longer hold our heads up, let alone a pen or we’ve moved on. To a place, perhaps better, perhaps much like the one we just left, where there’ll be a typewriter sitting on a table next to a sheaf of paper and a freshly poured cup of coffee waiting.
Yeah, for the whole thing to start all over again.
