“But that’s fiction for you: it taunts you with the spectre of what you cannot do yourself.” - Zadie Smith on “novel nausea”
I’m fairly certain that I’ve crossed a bridge into a new place. This blog, while not only acting as real-time therapy, has been where I chronicle the incredible journey I’m on with this book. While there are occasional downs, up to this point, I’ve been lucky to feel so much forward motion, so much fervor to create, and for the most part, words have flowed very freely. Sure, I’ve doubted perspective at times, but I read back through old entries, and very few times have I been flat out stuck while I have goals in mind. In short, while I’ve always had the aim to make this the best book it possibly can be (and publishable, if possible), I’ve never had to think twice about this as anything but pleasure.
This weekend, I learned what it means to “push through the pain.” And in doing so, I think I’ve pushed myself into new writerly territory. As I’ve only recently begun to relate, I’m experiencing my first bout of absolute disconnect with my own writing. Nausea about my work. A deep doubt of everything that’s on the pages. Distaste for my own ideas. Feeling like I’ve run dry of ways to meet the explicit goals I’ve broken down for myself. I’ve never felt something more paralyzing. This book is, in many ways, my life. And what do you do when your life just stops working? Of course, it comes on the heels of real professional interest and a need to work on a timeline that’s not my own (yes, I know this is not a coincidence).
After spending the week talking through the confusion and doubts workshop had brought up, I collected myself and decided that Friday and Saturday night, I’d dedicate my evenings to confinement in coffee shop walls, trying to get things done. While I was able to do some work, it was mostly housekeeping and organizational (read: stalling). Not a single new word was written. Sunday, with my new chapter index annotated with specific goals, I was determined to get the momentum moving again. And at 1:30, I sat down. By 3:30, I’d barely written 200 words. All of which I hated.
I started making my frustrated noises (read: squealing like a baby dinosaur) at my computer in the middle of the Tea Lounge. This is never a good sign.
I don’t know what happened. But something happened. I reopened my laptop, and just started going. I didn’t have that full-bodied inspired feeling. My dislike for my work was still in full-force. As I wrote, I was fairly confident that I hated everything going down on the page, and that I wouldn’t be able to use any of it. It felt like I was physically dragging prose from my gut, kicking and screaming the whole way. But between 3:30 and 4:30, I’d written 3,000 new words.
To me, this is a breakthrough. ”Inspiration” is such a tough thing; in a sense, it’s esoteric writer bull, but in another sense, it’s true that you often don’t create your best work (or sometimes any work at all) without feeling something. With this manuscript, and probably fiction in general, this was the first time I was able to write because I knew I needed to, not because it felt good or natural. I understand that now I can push myself through this rocky period, and even if I don’t love everything that comes out, the fact that something is coming out at all is enough right now. I have no idea if what I wrote yesterday fills any holes, or whether any of it is really useable. But having this experience, this odd version of triumph, proves to me that this is the only thing that I want to do. That I’m meant to do. And if it kills me, I’m going to be a writer. I just may lose some time/hair/sanity along the way.
M
