So I guess what I'm getting at is that I had come to embrace the idea of being a writer by seeing myself through the eyes of others. And not just anyone, but people whose opinions I respected -- like Ruben Howard, Gayle Saks, Tobias Wolff, Kathleen Kirby, James Savoca, Jem Aswad and Stephanie Oakley, to name a handful. But there was always that cloying, clawing self-doubt, whispering to me about how wrong these good people were about me and my so-called "talents." I was a poser, according to this whispering presence, and if I had any talent to speak of it was in the area of being an adept impostor.
Don't get concerned; I'm not saying I heard actual "voices," per se. But when I'd sit down to the "work" of writing, I invariably experienced this conversation with myself.
Probably the most profound example of my guilt at being a pretender came some time in the late 1990's, when Toby Wolff came through New York City to promote The Night in Question, a collection of stories. He was doing a reading at a SoHo bookstore, and I took Jeanette there to meet my mentor. When it was our turn at the signing table, he gave me a warm hug, and another to Jeanette, and then immediately asked me, "And how's your work going?" I was a little stunned by the question, probably because I hadn't remembered discussing my teaching career, then in its fifth year, in the letters we'd been writing since I graduated. "Um, good. I'm actually teaching This Boy's Life this semester." Almost before I got the sentence out, he said, "No, I mean your work."
I explained that despite a few abortive attempts at some longer pieces I had not been writing much these past couple of years. "Well you're too good not to do it," he smiled, and that was the last we talked of it. We had a pleasant Italian dinner at a nearby restaurant, during which Toby filled us in on his two sons and asked Jeanette questions about her own life and work. It was a great evening. But that whispering self-doubt was snickering at me the entire time.
All of this comes down to one simple fact: Like most things in life, writing is about work, which makes Toby's word choice particularly interesting (and characteristically accurate). There are those of us who allow the circumstances of our lives to prevent us from finding the time to do the work of writing. There are countless "becauses" when I ask myself why I'm not writing. But then there are the people whose work ethic I admire so much; my friend the filmmaker James Savoca comes immediately to mind. He has steadfastly produced work, often making significant sacrifices in the process. Music journalist Jem Aswad,, too. And Toby Wolff, of course.
All of this boils down, I suppose, to the annual New Years resolution: Work, work, WORK. It's not about what others think or feel. It's not about whispering self-doubt. It's about the work.
Don't get concerned; I'm not saying I heard actual "voices," per se. But when I'd sit down to the "work" of writing, I invariably experienced this conversation with myself.
Probably the most profound example of my guilt at being a pretender came some time in the late 1990's, when Toby Wolff came through New York City to promote The Night in Question, a collection of stories. He was doing a reading at a SoHo bookstore, and I took Jeanette there to meet my mentor. When it was our turn at the signing table, he gave me a warm hug, and another to Jeanette, and then immediately asked me, "And how's your work going?" I was a little stunned by the question, probably because I hadn't remembered discussing my teaching career, then in its fifth year, in the letters we'd been writing since I graduated. "Um, good. I'm actually teaching This Boy's Life this semester." Almost before I got the sentence out, he said, "No, I mean your work."
I explained that despite a few abortive attempts at some longer pieces I had not been writing much these past couple of years. "Well you're too good not to do it," he smiled, and that was the last we talked of it. We had a pleasant Italian dinner at a nearby restaurant, during which Toby filled us in on his two sons and asked Jeanette questions about her own life and work. It was a great evening. But that whispering self-doubt was snickering at me the entire time.
All of this comes down to one simple fact: Like most things in life, writing is about work, which makes Toby's word choice particularly interesting (and characteristically accurate). There are those of us who allow the circumstances of our lives to prevent us from finding the time to do the work of writing. There are countless "becauses" when I ask myself why I'm not writing. But then there are the people whose work ethic I admire so much; my friend the filmmaker James Savoca comes immediately to mind. He has steadfastly produced work, often making significant sacrifices in the process. Music journalist Jem Aswad,, too. And Toby Wolff, of course.
All of this boils down, I suppose, to the annual New Years resolution: Work, work, WORK. It's not about what others think or feel. It's not about whispering self-doubt. It's about the work.
It's all about The Work.
ReplyDeleteAnd yet ...
"Any work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line." -- Joseph Conrad.
... trying to Work around this self-conscious aspiration has broken my pitiful resolve at least once a year every year for decades. And this makes me wonder which problem is mine:
"There are two reasons why people refrain from writing books: either they are conscious that they have nothing to say, or they are conscious that they are unable to say it; and if they give any other reason than these it is to throw dust in other people's eyes or their own." -- R.G. Collingwood
The older I get I feel I have less to say more than I lack the ability to say something. This is making me more "philosophical" than "literary", and regretful (I don't think "guilt" is quite right in my case) that I've lost something -- my fascination with capturing the feel of life in words like ephemerae trapped in amber forever.
I totally relate to your litany of "becauses", Dan, but they are excuses and, as you know, not reasons for not writing.
"... -- my fascination with capturing the feel of life in words like ephemerae trapped in amber."
ReplyDeleteeven one less word can make more of a sentence.