Life Outside the Bowl
Well, shoot.
I've been reading "On Writing" by Stephen King, and he insists you gotta read and write like all the time. Here's the jankiest part: I love it!
I mean, I've grown a bit lazy, a bit rusty these past 30 years. I'm not perfectly primed or well-oiled or what have you, but I embrace it. I embrace the assignment of reading and writing more.
It's like with most any good thing though: somehow, I drift away from reading only to come back to it wondering why I ever left in the first place. Writing isn't quite the same anymore because I've gotten into a pretty good habit of writing consistently — though not yet at a certain time every morning.
King says he would start writing at some time in the morning (I forget the actual hour now) and stay there until he had written 2000 words. There have been a few good days when I've managed ~2000 in one sitting. If it were my living, I know I could do it with glee. As things are now, I bet I could arrange myself into 1000 words per day. Discipline he recommends. Discipline: imagine that.
Honestly, I think I would love that too: getting up early, typing 'til 1000 words, and carrying on the rest of the day with my story rattling around in my head. I would love it to pieces. Really, that's my dream, but I fear. King talks a little about how bad style is often bred from fear of saying it wrong, but I'm talking about the fear of writing altogether. I'm talking about the little whispers that tell me I should get a 9-to-5 and stop wasting my time on this fancy — or any fancy really.
Don't get up in arms yet (some of you). I know it's a sham to think that way, but you know as well as I. You know the voices that say, "I guess someone would admire that if they knew / How you did it and they were interested in [writing] which I am not" (Accomplishments by Cynthia Macdonald).
As I copy and paste those words, I can hear the voice, the one particular voice that said almost those exact same words. Unspeakable, but can you blame 'em? They were told the exact same thing, and so on it rolls, this endless chain of nobody-gives-a-shit-now-get-back-to-work.
It's magical stuff really. Magic is the stuff that defies logic, that lives outside explanation, that makes no sense no matter how many years you question it.
It's magical stuff.
But hey, so is the counter-spell: sheer, wild determination. I take that back; it's not wild. The determination is as un-wild as an iceberg; it's just a massive, immovable thing that floats in one direction.
I'm an iceberg at this point. An iceberg with feelings perhaps. I still feel the hurts of let-downs, set-backs, and naysayers — but it's too late. I've seen too much. I can't go back, no matter how much "real life" is behind me.
I look forward. Mostly, I see shining opportunities. If I did the math right (and I'm pretty good at math at this point), I will take small steps, each more shining than the last. If I did the math wrong or didn't account for something really dynamic, I still can't go back.
Reportedly, goldfish grow to fit their containers. The little pet goldfish live in the tiny bowls; thus, they stay tiny. When given enough space, goldfish have grown as large as 5 lbs. That bugger is out. He's not going back to the home bowl. I mean, he could, and then he'd die. At least we have options, right?
My point is that it's scary to embrace life outside the bowl. What if I'm not big enough? What if some other fishy chomps me up in one bite? What if I can't find enough fish-food?
You know what? I'll take my chances. I'd rather possibly die of starvation or likely get eaten by a bigger fish than surely die of suffocation.
Even then, it's not as dramatic as that. I've made some fine, fishy friends who don't want me to suffocate, starve, or be eaten either. So I guess I can swim along with my funny clan of oddly-shaped goldfish friends and family and hope not to be eaten and try not to starve.
Here's the funniest bit: I think my efforts will stick. I think I'll take one shining step after another. I'm not pretending there won't be more set-backs or let-downs (and the naysayers are always close, closer than friends, closer than enemies), but that's it: just one step after another.
King in an interview was asked how he does it, how he writes what he does. "One word after another," he said.
I've been reading "On Writing" by Stephen King, and he insists you gotta read and write like all the time. Here's the jankiest part: I love it!
I mean, I've grown a bit lazy, a bit rusty these past 30 years. I'm not perfectly primed or well-oiled or what have you, but I embrace it. I embrace the assignment of reading and writing more.
It's like with most any good thing though: somehow, I drift away from reading only to come back to it wondering why I ever left in the first place. Writing isn't quite the same anymore because I've gotten into a pretty good habit of writing consistently — though not yet at a certain time every morning.
King says he would start writing at some time in the morning (I forget the actual hour now) and stay there until he had written 2000 words. There have been a few good days when I've managed ~2000 in one sitting. If it were my living, I know I could do it with glee. As things are now, I bet I could arrange myself into 1000 words per day. Discipline he recommends. Discipline: imagine that.
Honestly, I think I would love that too: getting up early, typing 'til 1000 words, and carrying on the rest of the day with my story rattling around in my head. I would love it to pieces. Really, that's my dream, but I fear. King talks a little about how bad style is often bred from fear of saying it wrong, but I'm talking about the fear of writing altogether. I'm talking about the little whispers that tell me I should get a 9-to-5 and stop wasting my time on this fancy — or any fancy really.
Don't get up in arms yet (some of you). I know it's a sham to think that way, but you know as well as I. You know the voices that say, "I guess someone would admire that if they knew / How you did it and they were interested in [writing] which I am not" (Accomplishments by Cynthia Macdonald).
As I copy and paste those words, I can hear the voice, the one particular voice that said almost those exact same words. Unspeakable, but can you blame 'em? They were told the exact same thing, and so on it rolls, this endless chain of nobody-gives-a-shit-now-get-back-to-work.
It's magical stuff really. Magic is the stuff that defies logic, that lives outside explanation, that makes no sense no matter how many years you question it.
It's magical stuff.
But hey, so is the counter-spell: sheer, wild determination. I take that back; it's not wild. The determination is as un-wild as an iceberg; it's just a massive, immovable thing that floats in one direction.
I'm an iceberg at this point. An iceberg with feelings perhaps. I still feel the hurts of let-downs, set-backs, and naysayers — but it's too late. I've seen too much. I can't go back, no matter how much "real life" is behind me.
I look forward. Mostly, I see shining opportunities. If I did the math right (and I'm pretty good at math at this point), I will take small steps, each more shining than the last. If I did the math wrong or didn't account for something really dynamic, I still can't go back.
Reportedly, goldfish grow to fit their containers. The little pet goldfish live in the tiny bowls; thus, they stay tiny. When given enough space, goldfish have grown as large as 5 lbs. That bugger is out. He's not going back to the home bowl. I mean, he could, and then he'd die. At least we have options, right?
My point is that it's scary to embrace life outside the bowl. What if I'm not big enough? What if some other fishy chomps me up in one bite? What if I can't find enough fish-food?
You know what? I'll take my chances. I'd rather possibly die of starvation or likely get eaten by a bigger fish than surely die of suffocation.
Even then, it's not as dramatic as that. I've made some fine, fishy friends who don't want me to suffocate, starve, or be eaten either. So I guess I can swim along with my funny clan of oddly-shaped goldfish friends and family and hope not to be eaten and try not to starve.
Here's the funniest bit: I think my efforts will stick. I think I'll take one shining step after another. I'm not pretending there won't be more set-backs or let-downs (and the naysayers are always close, closer than friends, closer than enemies), but that's it: just one step after another.
King in an interview was asked how he does it, how he writes what he does. "One word after another," he said.
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