I have a tendency to throw myself into things. “Things” is, as Deb says, a fat word. It’s so general it adds very little meaning. But it applies in this case because the things I throw myself into are varied and sundry. Some, like woodworking, were useful and interesting. Something worth bragging about. Some, like the musical Hamilton, are only slightly embarrassing. Others are almost too embarrassing to mention, but as this is a blog, and personal confessions are expected… I saw the first Pirates of the Caribbean ten times. In the theater. Alone. I don’t know why.
Deb says these passions are how I distract myself from other things in my life that I’m anxious about (He leans in, glances over his shoulder, and whispers, “My job.”). There is definitely some truth to that. I hate to think the Pirates of the Caribbean thing was anything but that. But I hope there is more to it some of the time. I mentioned elsewhere that I’ve always felt I have an unsatisfied artistic bent. Many of these passions tease that creative part of me. In some cases, it’s obvious. Woodworking for example. For something like Hamilton, it isn’t so obvious. I love the music, and the story is a true tragedy. Hamilton was a brilliant man, whose life was brought to an early end due to a tragic flaw (in the classical sense). He was an asshole who alienated almost everyone. Some, like Burr, to a murderous rage. But what really fueled that obsession through hundreds of hours listening to the soundtrack and five performances was the story of the creative process behind it. From Lin Manuel Miranda getting the idea while reading the Hamilton biography on vacation, to his collaboration with Alex Lacamoire, previewing a not quite finished version of the opening song at the white house, working on the songs with his friends, etc. At some point, he, they, knew they were involved in something really special. I crave that, dream of it. (If you’re interested, I highly recommend Hamilton: The Revolution).
These passions follow a similar arc. Something lights the fire, something often mysterious, but it leads to obsessive information collecting. Books, magazines, blogs, podcasts, classes, an overheard conversation in a coffee shop, and of course, more books. All of these are fed into my insatiable need to understand. I cast a wide net, absorb as much information as possible and slowly develop my own model of the subject. In some cases, it ends there, but for others, woodworking for example, a prolonged period of practice follows. But, in every case, at some point, the passion fades as quickly as it flared. I imagine Deb is bemused by all this foofaraw, for the most part, but I’m sure it can be frustrating for her at times. My interest in woodworking died just before she got the bed she wanted.
Which brings me, finally, to the point of this post. My passion for writing was kindled on that cold morning in a coffee shop, and it wasn’t long before I was casting my net. I’ve mentioned elsewhere, the first book on writing I bought was Stephen King’s On Writing, but that was followed by many others. I got on the Internet in search of writing classes and found the Allwriters’ Workplace and Workshop. I took a class in grammar (didn’t stick) and one called ‘Starting – and Finishing – the Novel!’ That opened the floodgates.
I’ll talk about some of what I consider the most useful sources elsewhere, but my point here is that, in many ways, my writing journey has followed a similar arc to my other passions. Hopefully, if you’re following along, you see the problem.
I threw myself at it like I always do. And I waited, with dread, for the flame to burn out. Every milestone was a potential pitfall. There was a moment, when I was in the middle of the first draft of the last act, when the words really began to flow. I read what I wrote and liked it. That terrified me. But I kept writing. My short stories are not well liked by editors, but when one was finally accepted, I worried. Finishing the first draft of Spirit Song was another potential worrisome moment. At that point, I wasn’t thinking I could get it published. Finishing the novel was the goal. Would the fever die away once the goal was reached? But I kept writing, through I don’t know how many drafts. When i finished the manuscript. When multiple publishers rejected it. When Black Rose Writing accepted it. All potential fire breaks.
Every day I don’t feel like writing, I’m sure the time has come. It’s why I write obsessively. Every day, for as much time as I can find. It’s why I’m relentless in producing the twenty pages for my writing coach each week. It’s like feeding fuel to the fire will keep it going. I hope. If you think it’s crazy, imagine living in my head.
But I’ve kept writing. Deb and I just finished the first draft of Argren Blue, I’m about to start the sequel to Spirit Sight, and I’m enjoying it as much as I did on that cold morning a little over three years ago. The fire may fade at some point, but I’m going to try to enjoy the ride while I can. You know, unless admitting that means I lose motiva— Sheoda!
Andsutra!
