Silvercatcher

January 19, 2010

Posted by Madeline on Jan 19 2010

Listening to: Agricantus

Reading: Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov [just finished] and One True Thing by Anna Quindlen [just started]

A few days ago, I found myself in a position in which I suddenly didn’t know if writing was ‘worth it.’ The situation was a fight, and some nasty things were said, and I’ll admit that I freaked. I know I spend a great deal of time inside my own head, with or without characters, and I know if I don’t have plenty of time by myself to get some thoughts out on paper, I get a little grumpy. But are my books worth the amount of time I spend away from my family, or the arguments I get in for being alone too much, or the amount of stress and disappointment and insecurities I have from my own writing? Well, I don’t know the answer to that.

It took me a while [and a whole bunch of tissues] to be able to step back and consider the problem. There are things I hate about writing. I hate my insecurities about it, and how I can’t ever decide if I want to talk about it. I hate how I need people’s approval so much, but I’m afraid to ask for it in case I’m disappointed. I hate how it puts me in a bad mood when I’m away from it. Mostly, I hate how the hour it takes to write three lame paragraphs is also an hour away from my family.

But who am I kidding? I can’t not write. Because my favorite parts of myself are in writing, and even more importantly, because I can sort out the world through my writing- at least a little bit more than I would be able to if I were alone inside my mind.

So, the problem I’m facing now is one I’m sure all artists- not just writers- need to sort out for themselves. Where is the line between the time needed for artistic creativity and the time needed to actually live life? I can’t write about living, real people if I only stay inside my own head. It’s hard- even in the past couple of days, I’ve found myself slipping. I’m human, so I know it’ll take me a while to learn how to balance everything in my life a little better. But I’ll keep trying, and at least I’ll learn something about myself- and my writing- along the way.

Part of an Etude:

Some days I can try to bridge the river of miscommunication, and this trickle of feeble words stretches like the high, high, whispery notes of the piano’s top octave. Like the first moment of the first spring thunderstorm or the initial exploration into a leather-bound, gilded dictionary, these words of mine linger for a moment, maybe two, before they shift into what is normal, what is recognized, what falls into the category of seen and heard and understood and thought before. We are not cockroaches, but I think we underestimate the value of our adaptability. The mountain peak of glory in my mind is touched upon by you, like a twig tentatively probing a crawling anthill, and though perhaps only one tiny insect dares the perilous slopes of the twig or sneaks upon the toe of your sneakers, the mountain is flattened as you sketch its profile into your book of great understanding.

Edit: The rest of the Etude above is posted on the Other Projects page under the name of There Is a Time.