Writing for Your Life

I am working like a madwoman.  My day job has become a night-and-day job, and though I love it, I’m exhausted.  I told myself this would be temporary, this crazy schedule — that it was necessary to build my business and cast my net wide to connect with innovative people, but I am running out of juice.

My biggest problem isn’t the fatigue, though.  The biggest problem is that I’m not writing.  The effects of this lifestyle are varied and painful.  I need to get back into therapy soon, if I don’t start integrating regular writing practice into my day.  No time to process, no time to transcribe the voices and conversations in my head.  I’m losing observed moments to time and yesterday.  The cat places her paw gently on my wrist and I feel the pressure of her concern.  Thankfully, that’s recorded now.  Countless other moments have slipped away. 

It’s a bit of a fib to say I’m not writing, though.  I’m writing lots of emails, wiki entries, project management guides, and curriculum materials. I’m also writing loads of cryptic little notes to myself which remind me of the notes I wrote on cocktail napkins back when I was drinking.  Notes that say things like “multiple measures” instead of “raven’s wing” and mean as much the next day.

Speaking of sobriety, my productivity is through the roof right now — I only wish it was peaking in terms of a different kind of creativity.  I have a story that’s on my brain though, which is promising, especially as I do not typically write fiction.  I need to read a little Calvino, perhaps.  Maybe visit Kundera again, as the Velvet Revolution is also on my brain since Havel’s recent death.  I can’t seem to shake it.

This could be a start, this ten minutes here.  Reminiscent of Natalie Goldberg’s advice about taking “X” topic/subject/image and then “ten minutes — GO.”  This could be a good way to end the work day, even if the work day ends after one a.m. and begins again only a few hours from now.  I’ll let myself think about tomorrow’s topic during a snack or shower tomorrow.  If I can manage to squeeze in a shower.

Previously Unpublished

This goes out to all the blogging writers, posting poetry and snippets of prose: You do realize that you won’t be able to submit this work for publication, correct?  

Most publishers won’t consider works that are published on personal websites … which is why I’ve been removing work from this site, after enough time passes for me to not hate it so feverishly.

Don’t get me wrong, the whole reason I set up a blogging site in the first place was to hold myself accountable for a little regular writing.  I wanted to be more active, and write consistently, and then I started thinking it would be nice to interact with other writers. Mostly, my mom commented on my work, each poem my “best yet!” according to her.  

Writing, posting, editing, posting, revising, writing … it was enough to create some momentum and courage.  I kept writing. I kept posting.

I go through phases where I send out work like crazy.  I’m licking envelopes the old fashioned way and submishmashing at the same time.  I make trips to the post office on deadline days.  I get puffed up and confident.  I know it will be awhile until the rejections arrive.  Now it’s time to get serious, for real.

I’ve taken down the old site and made sure this new one is linked to social media sites for purposes of self promotion (you’d better believe it, twenty-first century baby).  It kills me to write a new poem and keep it to myself, and yet I love wanting to share it after so many years of hoarding.  Now I’m not sure what I’m writing for daily consumption, exactly.  Stuff like this, I suppose.  Commentary and reflection, and blah, blah, blah. Just like everyone else?  Thanks, but no thanks?

The golden age of letter writing has passed.  Now, we document grave and trivial moments in 140 or fewer characters.  Margaret Atwood referred to social media and blogging as modern diary keeping — it’s just public now.  We are all exhibitionists. 

I’ve been avoiding my nonfiction goals for almost four years.  I just need 35 pages of text to circulate, but it’s been killing me.  I guess here is as good a place as any to hold myself accountable once again.  Just don’t be surprised if the posts disappear after a few weeks.