Detour
by phill
photo credit: Rick E Dick
I have a confession to make: I haven’t written anything substantial for almost three months now. That’s not the confession, not really. The real confession is that I am completely fine with this. There, I said it. I’m quite happy not writing for large periods of time. The stereotype of the compulsive, muse-driven writer is not one that I can force myself to squeeze within. Those authors that breathily announce that if they did not have writing they would not have life are no longer my colleagues, at least not in an ideological sense.
It hasn’t always been this way. In fact, this may be the first time that I have made this confession. A year or two ago, when I was still in the mad throes of passion that typically characterise any new relationship, even creative ones, I would have been shocked by anyone calling themselves a writer and not being gripped by the urge to write every minute of every day. But now that writing and I have been around each other for a while, I have learned that sometimes the writer and the word need a bit of a break; a time of inactivity that provides contrast before the delight of reaquaintance. Absence makes the heart grow fonder*.
So for the moment, in the excellent hashtag language of Twitter, I #amnotwriting. That isn’t to say, of course, that I #amnotgathering or that I #amnotthinking. This is a writer’s detour, not a writer’s block. I still carry around my little red book to jot down fragments in, and I’m slowly accreting a novel in the edges of my brain. I know exactly how I’m going to write it, and it’s in a form that might be convenient for nightly stints. Unfortunately, part of the reason I am not writing at the moment is the capital-T Thesis, upon which the hope of any future employment rests. Late nights at university are becoming more of the norm than the exception.
To keep my muscles limber I’m reading and critiquing my writer’s group—Mark is leaving for greener pastures in Melbourne soon, so we have two new ladies joining. I’ve always found that critiquing other people’s writing makes me want to write more. It never fails in that regard, similar to reading a great novel.
tl:dr version—I’m not writing much at the moment, nor will it be a focus until I finish my thesis. I’m still critiquing though, and anyone who has my email address is welcome to send me stuff.
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*a property shared by Absinthe, but not abscesses.
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Comments
I never believed in the whole bullshit stereotype of the writer who constantly churns out pages of loose-leaf crap every day, only to store them in a poorly organised but highly visible manner in the hopes that visitors and passers-by will ask them if they are a writer so they can smirk and say “Why, yes; however did you know”.
I look forward to seeing what this scenic route brings you. Send me postcards :)
That’s not not-writing, that’s just the non-drafting limb of the writing cycle. You’re inhaling. You’ll exhale when you’re ready. They still call the whole thing breathing. I’m curious about this accruing novel.
@Tim: Heh, yeah I tend not to tell anyone I write for fear of them thinking of me like that. Perhaps I’ll take up the blogging pen again–pressure free writing can be cathartic.
@Jon: Nice analogy–you’re full of those. As for the novel; so am I. It seems do-able, but I won’t be saying much more about it until it’s finished. I hate it when other people talk about projects that they are going to do as if they’re done, so I won’t be a hypocrite. (: