Well Josh, I've made it my life's ambition to write proffessionally. And as someone who spends far more time struggling through the putrid quagmire of the blank page, cursing at his own inability to form a coherent sentence, than he does slaughtering peaceful elves, I feel I must tell you:
the feeling you describe will NEVER END. The haunting suspicion that you are writing absolute shit that any breathing mortal would joyfully crucify you were they ever to see the trite and self-absorbed gobldiegook you vomit onto the page will sit in your tightening gut like an undercooked sausage until the day you ritualistically shoot yourself in the face or beat your trusted, rusted typewriter to death with a oversized hammer.
but still, you must do neither of these things. Why? Because if you do indeed kill yourself or your writing machine, you'll miss out on the reason why I and many others far more talented then I write. It's a feeling you see. and just a little one, too. For lack of a better analogy we can think of this beautiful golden little morsel of a feeling as a friendly, although rather ungainly, parasite, come to devour that luke warm sausage and gently tickle that little part of your stomach that seems to vibrate whenever you see a pretty girl (boy) or shut off that flickering fluorescent light above your coffee-stained cubicle desk for the week. this, my friend, is your fleeting and fickle muse. and it's invigorating company is well worth every thought of suicide and sidelong look at that bright red toolbox sitting in the corner that any drying pen or blinking cursor could possibly inspire.
I've written maybe 80,000 word's worth of finished manuscripts that I gingerly store in a box upon mine dusty shelf. And I've sold precisely two short stories to local Portland magazines, in addition to several well rather received school newspaper articles. I'm no Ernest Hemingway, but I've learned a thing or two from my forays into the craft, which I will exhaustively detail here:
So, you want that magic incantation that, once spoken, will instantly fill the page with that great and shining american novel. Well to put it simply, my little author, there just ain't no such thing. As I've said above, writing will always be an endless hike up K2 in a speedo with toddlers firmly grappling your ankles (i.e. tough). but there a couple things which might dislodge a five-year-old or two:
1. read. And repeat
Do so much reading that your fingers bleed from page turning. Do so much reading that your eyes lose all color and fall out of their darkened little sockets in a flurry of puss. Do so much reading that to simply look at a book will inspire within you feelings of profound weariness and terror. And then read some more. The only way you'll write well is to know what writing well looks like. And that means reading every book, magazine, newspaper, cereal box, bathroom wall, and wrinkled back tattoo you can possibly get your hands on. Quality means precisely nothing. reading the latest Twilight abomination will yield more insight than "The Old Man and the Sea" ever could. because, if you have any ear at all, you'll be able to easily tell what simply doesn't work. As you may have guessed, this means a significant time investment as well. Survivor reruns will simply bring you down, man.
2. when inspired, drop everything (except infants) and "Jot."
I cannot tell you how many times I've been in the supermarket dreaming up an epic tale of super powered, space-faring snapping turtles, promising myself that once I got home, I'd immediately sit in front of my battered typewriter and proceed to "let it flow" as the kids say, only to discover that once I'd made it, my cosmic saga has turned into a big, black...
Yeah, well, you understand. Keep a little notebook in a pocket at all times. And don't be afraid to pull it out and write down any key words, dialogue snippets, descriptive phrases, or cute-looking doodles that may float into your starving, beleaguered consciousness. And then, just maybe, the next time you're sitting in front of the computer, rending your garments and weeping, you'll know where to turn.
3. Examine your motivations.
If you want to be rich, become a CEO. If you want to show off, play football. If you want to die happy in a drunken stupor at age 35, having just finished your fourth novel about tree-tapping in Vermont, then write, my friend, write. There's little glory, money, or sex (almost certainly none of the last); Just and old sausage and a parasite.
4. Read... more.
just so you don't forget.
5. Be proactive.
Just get out there and do it, man. No magazine will ever ask you for a 16,000 word short story about the way the trees blow in an Autumn wind. You're just going to have to cram that pretentious piece of garbage down every last editor's throat (through a carefully worded cover letter, of course) until one of them gives up and swallows. And remember, for every story accepted into "Snootyville Quarterly" , you'll have eighteen thousand more sitting in your garage, turning to dust.
6. Be your own biggest fan.
Closely related to point five. Nobody will ever believe in you if you don't believe in you. I don't believe in you. I've never so much as seen one of your stories. And you probably suck. Those are just the odds. But if you truly do want to write it's because YOU know that you do not suck. And YOU don't give a panda's shit about what I think. Because you know have something to say, and right now you're dreaming eight hundred four letter words to describe exactly what I should be doing with my measure of your resolve.
7. R. E. A. D
Have you read every word anybody has ever written? then why are you looking at me like I'm going go on to point eight until you've read AND outlined the collected works of Charles Dickens.
MOVE, SOLDIER!
8. Write Endlessly.
The most important point of them all (disregarding points one, five, and seven, of course). Nobody, BUT NOBODY, is born a writer. Writers are made. In fact, they make themselves. They forge themselves out of galvanized steel and babies blood. They climb into clams and roll around until they're coated in a thick and shining shell. They lie underground for thousands of years in hopes that the pressure will turn them into a diamond. They squeeze every ounce of creative juice they possess. THey show us things we can never see, and they take us places that don't exist. And they do all these wonderful things without ever leaving the safety of their desk chairs. And with a little (thousands of hours worth of) work, you can too.
Failing that, the only other thing I can tell you is, well...
Just do it, man.
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Topic: I'm a creative failure (Read 7165 times)