Dec. 12, 2001
When Thomas Edison wrote those words, I don’t think he had the intention of using them as a kick in the ass for me.
However, since reading that quote several days ago, a kick is exactly what it was.
A couple of weeks ago I had a four day bout of madness – I wrote, created new sites, worked on my portfolio, worked on some submissions non-stop. I would go to bed around 4am, wake up at 8am and repeat. I lost track of time, skipped meals, stayed in a dishevelled state and became unrecognisable to my cat.
After the four days I felt alive and complete. I had done all that I could and had worn myself out. On the fifth day I couldn’t do anything more than sleep, but that was OK because I felt I had deserved it. I promised myself that the next day I’d do it all over again.
But the next day, I didn’t. I didn’t on the 7th day or the 8th day either. The 9th day? Forgetaboutit.
A whole bunch of things started to go through my brain and I started to have issues again with writing. This frustrated me because I really thought that I was finally comfortable with all that I was doing.
I wasn’t.
Even though so many positive things were happening – two articles behind me, another coming out in January, and a book project that I was possibly going to participate in, endless means of support from readers and other artists, I was still scared and unsure. I was holding back from all that I could do, and was frustrated with myself for that.
I used to take leaps and bounds and dive right in but with writing, with art, I have taken such little steps, sometimes testing the waters first. I’ve been trying to do it “right” and “practical” and “logical” and with no mistakes. I’ve been scaring myself into perfection, which I now know is not only stupid, but also impossible. That combined with my fear and self doubt had manifested itself into a nasty little writers block and if I was going to get anywhere, I had to deal with it. I had to stop holding back and do all that I could do.
That’s why the quote from Edison really hit me hard and woke me up.
When I worked for those four days straight doing everything I had to do no matter how tired, hungry or cranky I was I felt so complete and alive. I didn’t question once if this was OK or if I was on the right track. I just knew because I felt it. The days that I do less, I feel less.
I keep thinking that because I’ve been a freelance writer for over seven months now that things should be perfect and smooth. I should have it all together and the whining should be minimised and perhaps eliminated completely. But I’m still learning, still trying to find what works for
And I think slowly, I’m figuring it out.
Dec. 10, 2001
It’s come to the point where I don’t feel like talking about writing anymore; all I want to do now is just do it.
No more analysing, no more reading how others did it, no more playing tricks to get me to write, no more 12 step programs, no more thinking outloud or talking about all the projects I have. That has to stop, or the writing won’t ever really begin.
The old quote, “Those who can do, do, and those that can’t talk a lot about it,” keeps popping up in my mind. I’ve done the reading, I’ve done the homework, I’ve done the playing. It’s time to do the work. And not sporadic bits that keep give me a false sense of accomplishment, but hard down, dirty I’m exhausted and it’s not going to stop for awhile work.
I’ve known I’ve had to do this for a long time, but I keep putting it off. I buy books to read telling myself it’s to help me learn but it’s really to keep me from writing. I think, as much as I feel like a writer, I’m still afraid. Still afraid to be proven wrong. Afraid that my writing isn’t acceptable, afraid to be found out that I’m a phony, afraid that all those that see me as test waters will be disappointed if I don’t make it.
When I think about it all, I freeze up. I pretend that I don’t but I do. I pretend I have reasons for not writing – dishes, cleaning, my art program, family, moving, lack of ideas, cold weather, no tea. But the only reason I have is being afraid because of everything that has been swimming around in my brain. The only thing I can think to calm myself is to just do it.
Don’t think, just do. Let it come out. Start writing. Don’t stop. Don’t worry. Do.
Dec. 12, 2001
My eyes won’t stay open much longer, my fingers are too tired to type and my brain pleads insanity from exhaustion. I’ve just come off a mad literally non-stop 4 day run of writing.
I was working until 4am and then would rise at 8am to start all over again. I’d forget to eat or get up and stretch my legs. Instead of paying attention to the dishes, the laundry, the phone calls, I ignored it all and did nothing more than write and create.
There were so many ideas swimming around in my brain and for the first time in awhile, I was able to make sense and record each and every one of them. Websites were redesigned, others were started. Writing projects long put off were completed and people I had to write to now had emails from me in their inbox.
Not once in all this work did I tell myself to stop, even when perhaps I should have. I kept going and working and instead of being cranky about working at 3am, I was excited at how much I was doing. At one point I noted to myself that if this were any other job I would have been bitter – very bitter. I would have demanded to know why I was working such long hours because it’s just not human. I would have wanted to know what would my compensation be for working such long, demanding hours? I would have watched the clock relentlessly for lunch breaks and coffee gatherings. I probably would have made a fuss, especially if I had to work the weekend.
But there I was, doing the exact same thing, without direct pay, without compensation, without breaks, and without complaints. In fact, I was happy about it all. I felt good about it all. I felt accomplished about it all. I hadn’t worked my arse off so much in a long time but somehow, it just didn’t feel like work.
It reminded me of when I met an old man who was a wood carver and sold all his beautiful toys, dishes, shakers, and various other wood projects. Once I exclaimed when I looked at the detail of his wooden toys and said, “Look at all that hard work.” He heard me and with a wink replied, “That’s not work, it’s play.”
I understand that now. That is why after all that hard work I still long to do more.
Dec. 06, 2001
When people ask what I do and I tell them I’m a writer, their response is to scrunch their nose and ask the same questions that everyone asks; how much does it pay, what do I write, and where did I get my degree. It always happens, without fail.
My answer is now always the same, “The pay varies, I write about every day real things in a way that you take a second look, and I have no degree as I’ve never stepped foot in a university.”
At this point, their eyes begin to squint and they look me up and down. They almost always want to challenge me because that’s not an answer they expected. They say, “You write about life? You’re what, 20?”
“No,” I’ll say with a wink, “I have far more years and experience than you think.”
Then there is always a moment of awkward silence until they ask, “Well, how do you write if you don’t have a degree?”
“Work doesn’t always require a degree,” I say. “Just effort.”
At this point the conversation usually ends. When people ask me those questions I know they’re looking for a certain response, and when they don’t get it, they become a bit defensive and try to put me on the spot but not validating what I say. It can be frustrating to say the least to not be taken seriously – either because of your profession, the way you look, or because of the life you’ve chosen.
When I encounter those sorts I just remind myself that they won’t help me anyway, so why bother explaining things or giving them the whole story.
I am by no means an accomplished and successful writer, and I still have far too much to learn than I can grasp right now, but at least I am out there doing. Perhaps not in the best way, or the easiest way, perhaps not as “professional writers with degrees and 50 years behind them” do, but I’m doing. I’m out there showing up each day trying to make a living at what I love. That, I think, is what is important – not how much I’ve taken home, how many degrees I have or a title that is cut and dry.
It’s funny, but when I was shopping today I heard a girl say, “I just graduated in May, with a degree in Creative Writing. There are no jobs out there for me at all so I have to work retail.”
When I heard that I thought to myself, “only if you want to.”
Dec. 03, 2001
I never understood people who were successfully and happily working in a field they loved. How did they know their calling? I certainly didn’t have that feeling of knowing what I wanted to be when I grew up, let alone find a job in it.
Before all of this I was frustrated beyond belief at what to do with work because over and over I had heard people say “do what you love to do, and figure out how to make money from it.” But I had no idea what it was that would make me happy – I only knew what made me unhappy, and that wasn’t much help.
I would read about writers and they always knew they’d write. I read about singers who always knew they’d sing. I read about photographers who were snapping pictures on their little Kodak cameras at age 6 and knew that’s what they wanted to do. Designers, graphic designers, parents, lawyers, doctors – they all seemed to know and I didn’t.
Very slowly, the idea of wanting to write came into my head. It wasn’t a bolt of lighting but just a little voice that came into my mind once in awhile. In April, it all came to a head when I got a push from an outside source and the rest is history.
One day a few months after I had begun to write full time, I went through my childhood boxes and discovered in them were countless things I had written until around age 15. There were short stories, journals, novels, poems, letters, and lots of random bits. I literally had boxes full of books of writing – writing that I had done all on my own, for fun, and just because. The one thing that struck me the most out of all my writing was that over and over in my journals were the words, “When I grow up, I am going to be a writer.”
I couldn’t believe that I was so passionate about writing and that I had declared so bravely and outloud that I would be a writer. How I forgot about such a passion and declaration I’m not sure. I can only assume that life and growing up responsible got in the way.
One thing is, I know I’m not the only one who had a dream as a child and forgot it along the way.
My husband works in a high-powered corporate tech position. Although he loves his job and his field, he began to feel there was something missing from his life because the only thing that his identity was based on was his job – and he was more than that. At the beginning of this year, he began to question himself and what he wanted, but he kept coming up short with answers. He tried to search for things he loved to do but had absolutely no clue at all. He also felt he had no time to find out. Then, one day about 4 months ago, he decided that he’d learn to play the guitar I had bought for him over a year ago. One day a week, for half an hour, he drives to a little nearby town and takes his lesson. He wasn’t sure if learning the guitar would be a good thing or not, because he was so afraid of failing at it or not liking it as much as he thought he would. But he went, each week, regardless of what the world was doing. And he began to enjoy himself and come out of his shell and release his creativity.
He found his passion.
Now he asks himself why he didn’t start years ago. But years ago it just never dawned on him that guitar and music was his passion, even though now, it seems so obvious.
Then, today, he sent me this email:
“I just remembered yesterday that when I was younger I was fascinated with electronic keyboards (musical). I got a small, cheap one when I was 9 or 10, and got a couple more over the next couple of years, of increasing size and complexity. I never learned to properly play them, I just loved messing with the effects. I also had a cheap toy drum machine with drumsticks, and also a pair of those drumsticks that you can play on anything. Even before that, I had played with recording music off the radio and making mixed tapes, messing with connecting tape recorders together and dubbing. I made up names for my “band” and constructed little cassette tape inserts with original artwork.
I totally forgot how into it I was. It culminated with a couple rap songs that I recorded onto a cassette when I was about 13, complete with keyboard drum beats and voice samples and effects, and I made up an insert for it too.
It’s weird because I was totally on the path to recording my own music and I’m not sure what happened, why I stopped. Puberty hit, and I got angsty and broody instead, or something. Ever since then I always fantasized about making music or being in a band but I never took it seriously until I started doing guitar this year. I’m still not sure I’m taking it seriously because it’s scary.
It’s just crazy because when you write about how you always loved writing and always knew that’s what you wanted to do, I envy that because I think that I’ve never really had anything like that. But maybe I kind of do and just didn’t realise it.”
That last paragraph I relate to so completely, and from the countless emails I’ve received saying the same thing, so do a lot of other people.
I think why it can be so hard for us to figure out what it is we really want to do is because we look outside ourselves for the answer. We try to emulate someone else who we think has it all together or whose career we think we could do. We try to figure out a “safe” passion or find something that we love and is “respectable” at the same time.
But if we could just look inwards, reminisce a little about the years when we didn’t care what others thought, then we would all find the answer of what we want to do. Because it’s always right there.
Elsewhere