Moose in the Kitchen

Yesterday afternoon, we were hiking with the dog and discussing my latest creative endeavor. Also known as “my latest exercise in idiocy” or “Why is the alarm going off at 7:00 a.m.? Who are you and what have you done with the girl who used to sleep here?” The dog has very specific ideas about my writing, by the way. They can be summed up with, “Stop staring at that gray box and take me out to hunt for kitties, damn it!” She’s a real inspiration, that dog.

I was explaining my complete lack of plot or useful characters (unless I somehow develop a plot where a talking monkey is eminently useful) and mentioned that I was more or less just writing for the hell of it. And possibly wasting my time. It was noted, and I fully agree, that “It would drive me crazy to waste my time like that.” A sentiment that is echoed by other writerly sorts and one that I heartily agree with. I don’t want to waste my time. My time is valuable. I need it to pay bills and read magazines and bake cookies. I’ve also been led to believe that cleaning the bathroom is occasionally a good idea. But what is wasted time? Talk to everyone you know and they’ll each have a different answer. (Don’t listen to anyone who says magazine reading and cookie baking is a waste of time. These people are not to be trusted.) In my opinion, no effort is wasted time if you enjoy it. Or if you’re driven, for whatever reason, to be good at something.

Even card-carrying geniuses spend years perfecting their scales or their swings or their understanding of neurophysical trigonometrical kleenex boxes. (Or whatever it is those scientific geniuses are busy figuring out.) It took me years – of dance classes, of waking up early to practice in the garage, of ripped up feet and bruised ego – to become even mediocre as a dancer. And I was born with some amount of natural aptitude. How much longer would it take to be come truly good? (Probably longer than my knees have, but ’tis the way of things.) That paragraph went in a more depressing direction than I intended. The point is, it’s worth it! Even without cartilege!

Even if I toss all these words, all these words I’m getting up early in the morning to write, I’m still learning something. What not to do, if nothing else. Maybe I’m the kind of writer who needs a fully-realized plot and years of research and back story (hi, dad! with your years of research!) before I can even begin writing. Maybe I can (and so far, do) emulate Anne Lamott or Stephen King, who start typing with only the barest glimmer of an idea that they flesh out by writing pages and pages of text that will eventually be thrown away. I just don’t know. Because I’ve never done this before. Every time I chuck several thousand words that cost me six hours of sleeping in time, I will cry into the beer I keep by my computer for just this purpose. It will hurt. I value my sleep, people. But if it’s making me a better writer, I won’t consider that time lost. Even if it only teaches me that I really should stop wasting my time with the writing thing and just get some damn sleep already, well, that’s something too.

(I’ve almost convinced myself. A few more paragraphs and my massive self-delusion will be in place, seducing me with its murmurs of “readable fiction” and “there are people out there who like to read readable fiction”. “If you make it readable, they will read.” Fine, I’m not so good at this mantra thing. My mantras usually tend more toward “stay awake, stay awake.”)

Considering that I’ve only had about two weeks of practice with the fiction writing, it’s maybe a bit egotistical to be expect proficiency already. Listening for the phone call informing me of my Pulitzer for my story about the mute monkey is really just giving me tinnitus and a bit of a strained neck. If I have to write six crappy novels to get one good one, maybe that’s not time wasted. Maybe that’s just my process. All right, maybe five crappy novels. No, three. Three short crappy novels. I could do that.

I’m pinning all my writerly aspirations on the hope that stubbornness is its own reward. Even Albert Einstein said, “It’s not that I’m so smart. It’s just that I stay with problems longer.” I’m pretty sure he’s lying because if anyone has historically proven smarts, it’s Albert Einstein. But he makes a good case for sticking it out. The IT – the greatness – is something you acquire, not something you are given or are not given. We see people being good at stuff – we don’t see them becoming good.* I find this comforting. Also, depressing. But I enjoy writing. I’m happier when I’m doing it every day. So, whether I write a novel that someone (or even two someones! I have goals!) reads or a whole bunch of gibberish that dies under the delete key, I still win.

Two weeks down, decades left. I may need more talking monkeys.

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*Anyone struggling to become good at anything, from painting live ponies to knitting houses out of organic yarn, should read The Genius in All of Us for its scientific evidence that, with enough practice time, you can paint a pony yellow in under three minutes.