I comfort myself with the fact that I’m still writing. In fact, I’m writing in ways that stretch my skills more than writing fictional narrative does, because I have more experience and practice with fiction. I am expanding the boundaries of the notorious comfort zone, and making myself a better writer all around.
But I still miss writing fiction.
It has been a long time, months, since I’ve written on any of my current works-in-progress. Since starting the MBA program, maybe longer. You might say to yourself, well winter break is the perfect time to dive back into the work you love! The fact is, I’m spending more time on professional blogging pursuits than on fiction during the break.
I’m not sure. It’s complicated. It has to do with the way that long-form artistic work functions, I think. First, to start again, I would have to go through reams of notes and read through my manuscript again before I’d know where to start or what to do. Second, it takes a while to get into and then to get out of that particular mode of work (at least it does for me), so break feels like a short time to get back into it.
I know that sounds odd for someone who can write a book in a couple of months, but it really does depend on the mode of work. I don’t like using the phrase “flow state,” because I think it’s misunderstood, but I think that’s the closest I could get to actually naming the phenomenon.
There’s also a lurking fear in there that being in my academic frame has changed the way I write, and I might ruin the good things that are already in the manuscript. The idea that there might be an abrupt change in tone or focus of the writing as a result of having taken so much time off the project is a real fear (whether or not it’s justified) and it feels safer just to let it lie until I can really focus on it.
Which, of course, will be never. Because artists have day jobs, and there’s always things to get in the way and it’s never the “right time” to write a novel, and all of the dozen other things I railed against when I started writing.
It’s funny, I used to be able to write any time, anywhere. I remember coming home with folded stacks of scrap paper in my pocket, a new chapter, ready to be typed into the main document.
I don’t know, a lot of things changed. Some personal, some environmental. My brain is different, for starters, for a host of reasons. I lead a more structured life now than I used to, something that’s necessary to maintaining academic performance and robust physical health. I guess I am more of an adult now, which isn’t a good thing or a bad thing, but it is a thing.
There are all kinds of things that adults let get in the way of writing, like meals and sleep and housework and social events. We trade the magic of writing half a book in a week for the drudgery of not living in filth and eating cold hot dogs at our laptops. Is it a worthwhile trade? I don’t know. Both modes of living have their ups and downs, obviously.
I appreciate the stability and structure of this adult life. I am grateful for the benefits it’s had for my health and general well-being. Structure helps me use my brain more effectively, understanding when to switch frames and tasks, and how to prioritize those things. There are massive benefits to not being a largely dysfunctional but tremendously productive author.
Unlike many famous white dude authors of the recent past, I don’t have a dedicated wife to take care of me, to edit my drafts and feed me and remind me to bathe. This seems to be a privilege reserved for artistic men. So I can’t hedge against sacrificing control of my life on the altar of creative pursuits in that way.
And the things that I’m doing instead are personally fulfilling and interesting in their own ways. But I still miss fiction
What Do You Miss About It?
Oh gosh. A lot of things. The risk is part of it. You can take risks in professional and academic writing, sure, but they’re different. In fiction it’s more about taking big risks that impact an imaginary world, while professional and academic pursuits involve taking smaller risks that impact my very real world. The sense of scale and feeling of recklessness are missing.
I also have this flair for the dramatic that isn’t satisfied by most academic or professional writing. You want to bring something of your personality to anything you write, obviously, because otherwise you could just get an AI to write it for you. Your personality, your voice, is what makes you marketable as a writer. But there’s a limit to the drama that you can inject into it.
In fiction, you can find ways to allow yourself to dramatize things to absurd degrees, though, and I do miss that. I miss the feeling of drawing out tension, the feeling of releasing that tension. I miss the ability to change the scope of the writing to serve my mood, zooming way in small or pulling way back. So I guess there’s an element of power to it too. I can make whatever I want, present it how I want the reader to see it, magnify the things I find important. I am the sole view into a fictional world when I write fiction; I am the final arbiter of reality, and my own propagandist.
There’s an element of craft that I miss there too. I mean craft is a consideration in any writing, no matter how technical; things must be read and easily understood by your chosen audience, and that’s craft. But the options are almost unlimited in fiction. I could spend three paragraphs writing about a rock on a beach, spinning it into a metaphor on the story’s theme, or whatever. There’s a lot less of that in professional and academic writing, and the rules you do it under are a lot less lenient.
I also miss the culture surrounding fiction writing. I miss getting to discuss structure and craft with other authors. I miss that particular camaraderie.
So basically everything, I guess.
So What Are You Going To Do About It?
That’s always the question, isn’t it? What am I going to do about it? Am I going to keep whining about it and not change anything? Am I going to dip my toe back in with some short fiction? I really should write more short fiction. Or am I going to read through my manuscript and puzzle out where I left off and what I was doing at the time, and then plunge in?
Which is easiest? Which is most practical? Which is most satisfying?
Ten years ago it felt like there would always be time for more writing. But now I’ve got three books on the back burner and it’s been years since I last published something. My education is preparing me for a career that will involve full time work, which means writing in the cracks and margins. How much time do I really have left to prioritize my fiction? Forty more years, if I’m lucky? I’ve already lived forty years and I’ve only got two books out. You can see how the pressure starts to mount.
I do not and will not have kids, but faced with questions like these I often wonder how I would advise my children in this same situation.
It would probably be something along the lines of follow your dreams! I know you can make it work! or something equally trite. Something that ignores the complexity of real life.
Because that’s the really great part of fiction; ignoring the complexities of real life.
Because the complexities of real life are soul-killing and boring, and it’s that, more than anything else, that I would want to protect my children from as long as possible.