On Writing
Consistency converts desire
Last night I wrote and cried while my dogs watched. Rewriting our own traumatic events is hard, but if it wasn’t hard it wouldn’t generate power. Revisiting my moments, feeling them again, stepping back into the folded fabric from that period of life gives me agency over my past. So I sit in emotions like a hot bath. Observe them objectively and without judgment. Then let them go.
I learn to feel them but not be controlled by them. Like stepping through beams of morning light. Anger is easy because it feels safe, but most of the time there‘s an emotion beneath the anger. Readers want truth. The more I understand myself the more I connect to readers. Whatever I give, I make sure it’s honest.
As though I’d returned from war. I hit publish, sorely exhausted, hair a mess, drained from writing after a long day at work. Sat in my office chair thinking, God, I love this. Finding words, putting them together. Connecting outs with ins, going deep into the well to fetch more when there’s nothing left. It’s work to find more, but it’s worthwhile work. There’s no work more worthwhile than assembling words like ships to send to faraway lands. There’s no greater love, for me, than the craft of writing.
I wonder sometimes if maybe I was meant to love words more than people because I’m meant to give them to people. Maybe that’s my purpose. Maybe everyone isn’t made for people. Maybe some people are made for ideas.
“My tragedy is I loved words more than the woman who inspired me to write.” — The Words, 2012 Film
A story about Rory, an aspiring author, who finds a manuscript in an old leather briefcase in a Paris shop. He falls in love with the story (can’t get it out of his mind) of a young man in Paris at the close of the war in Europe.
Rory wants to feel the words go through his fingertips so he types them, word for word, exactly as written. Every error, every typo. Then closes his laptop.
When his wife finds the manuscript and offers tearful praise he can’t tell her the truth. He accepts her laud for a manuscript he didn’t write, and launches down a path of losing himself. Outside a restaurant in a New York City alleyway, Rory aptly says:
“I’m not who I thought I was okay? I’m not. And I’m terrified I never will be.”
The story goes on to confront an idea that has long terrified me: why would God give a man a deep desire for something without the means to fulfill it? Wouldn’t that be cruel?
For many years I’ve asked the same question every writer has asked. Am I a writer? But more to the point, am I quality enough to be the writer I want to be?
It occurred to me that if God installed the desire it’s incumbent upon me to fulfill it. Desire is no more significant than hunger.
These days the most important component to my process is not inspiration, creativity, story, or technique. Those are all important, but the most important is consistency.
I am a professional writer. Not because someone named me a professional writer. Because I choose, daily, to be a professional writer, and professionals approach their work with a certain degree of commitment.
This is my craft. I work it daily. Consistency converts desire.
These days I think about other things. Not fame, not readers or opinions. I’m focused. How do I make the writing better? The task is simple. The goal is clear. Consistency and improvement equal consistent improvement.
20xx is a process. I am now more than three [at time of this piece’s initial publication] years working on this novel. I’ve noticed some shifts in my thinking. I’ve become wildly patient. I’ve become devoted to my vision. I no longer approach my work like a book. I approach my work like a masterpiece.
I shudder when I think what this book would be if I had settled with the first idea. Or the second. Or third. The evolution of ideas is a reflection of my evolution as a person. I give myself permission to create fearlessly, to open doors and windows, to allow what’s earned allowance.
Last night I didn’t want to write. I wanted to fold within like an old note. But I wrote. Line by painful line I opened doors and windows. I allowed canaries to collect on the windowsill. I let the feeling linger. Then lanced it. I examined the emotion beneath the anger and went to work.
Hey, I’m Roman. I’m working on my debut novel, 20xx, a work in magical realism. I write on Substack.
Hi, Roman. I love words just as much as I love people and I love them both a lot. Love your words, too.
I was going for a walk in the sunshine today and I thought "I'm a writer" and that was the first time that ever happened to me.
"For many years I’ve asked the same question every writer has asked. Am I a writer? But more to the point, am I quality enough to be the writer I want to be?" Then all of your words about how you have become patient and consistent in working on your novel. I feel all of this so deeply. Working on a craft changes the art and you. I am proud that I keep working on the writing that I know I must do. Cheers to that.