Act of Writing: A Pleasant Struggle

Writing, for me at least, feels like a tug-of-war you can’t walk away from. The act of writing is the contest, a pleasant struggle, the grappling for more rope, the hope of pulling something valuable in your direction along with all your ideas and characters strung down the line with you. But when the contest is over, the rope relaxes. In life you walk away from the game. In writing you cannot walk away. The rope may slack and whatever mysterious possibility was on the other side of the contest may wander off or just stand there waiting, but you’re still holding the rope, your hands burning from the struggle, at the ready, never mentally letting go of the distraction of coming back.

There was a time when I infrequently picked up rope. It had burnt my hands. The game was too exhausting or frustrating. I didn’t know how to hold on. Now, I’m glad to say, there are very few days when I don’t manage writing at least an hour or more. And when I’m not writing physically, that slacked rope, the thought of getting back to the story, the wonder of what will happen, the pleasure of it, remains in my grip. And I love it. Whether anything comes of what I’ve wrestled, tugged, and fought, I’ve still been doing something I now must do – write.

Writing is difficult work. It’s supposed to be. Students often lament the difficulty of college. I remind them that it is the difficulty of school that gives it value. If it were easy more people would do it and its value would plummet. It will never be easy, but it does get easier. And any relief from writing anxiety and blocks is worth figuring out. I’ve read and been given endless varieties of advice on when and how to write, ranging from the same time everyday to when it hits, in the mornings or in the evenings, on lunch breaks, in the middle of the night, only on weekends, to keep a pad of paper by the bed, to always have pen and paper in the car, carry a recorder, hire a secretary. All of this worked for someone, sometime. The key is to have patience with yourself long enough to figure out what works for you. If a cookie cutter solution works too well we might end up with cookie cutter work.

We can separate being inspired to write from the ability to be in the act of writing. They don’t often coincide, as you’ll all agree. One does not guarantee the other. There are times I’m physically able to be writing but lack inspiration, or I can be inspired mentally and not capable of being in the chair longer than five minutes at a time, or spiritually attuned to something that feels like inspiration but is in a language I cannot translate. It’s like writing biorhythms. When they all mesh up it’s like hitching a ride on a blissful cloud of clarity. But that’s not often. Even then it’s always hard work.

One thing that helps is feeling choked off now when I’m not writing. Not myself. I like that place. Something percolates – some conversation between characters, some interpretation of a scene that looks like poetry, some attempt at drawing a metaphor – in every waking hour. And I couldn’t be happier; or more distracted. That’s the painful part, when the mind races faster than your world allows opportunities to act. It works as long as the distraction doesn’t turn to resentment.

I think aspiring writers sometimes mislead themselves into thinking great writing is easy. They’ll read something so incredibly good, so naturally flowing, so convincing and shaking, inspirational, that they mistake that enjoyed perfection as ease on the part of the author. I can say that when I’m “not in the mood” (whatever that means), I find myself getting energized while reading something I consider great. That usually works. Go back to the things that made you want to write in the first place. The root of your inspiration.

From: http://www.writerscommunity.net/page/3