I Don’t Want to Be a Writer

“What are you working on?”

“Writing my book.”

“Oh. You’re still working on that?”

Yes, since September 1, 2018. With a few breaks totaling about 6 weeks.

I know. It’s supposed to burst out of me like Bukowski says. Roar, even. And for God’s sake, if I’m trying, I’m not writing.

Well, I’m not Bukowski, and while I’ve had those moments, those pieces that flow and roar out, most don’t. That has more than once made me feel like A Not Good Writer.

If the book were inspired (or if I were) it would be so out there. So done. So in something adjacent to a book form, with complexity and pathos and plot structure unless my genius is that I don’t need plot structure.

My genius is none of those things. My genius is in ice cream consumption, both pace and quantity.

Ice cream doesn’t set goals or want this, though.

I’m playing hide and seek with parts of the book, here. No, no, not hide and seek. It’s more like finding a pair of jeans. Gotta try on a lot and not settle for those that are good enough just to get it over with while understanding it will not be perfect. Ever. But knowing that you have enough long shirts for those days. But for God’s sake, don’t give in to the temptation to start looking at stretchy joggers.


Except on those days it’s good to take a break and put on the stretchy joggers.

Which is all to say I submitted something last week for the first time in six months and I’m excited to have something out of my hands for a while.

This next week the plan for the novel is to continue with research (there are elements of history and politics and I want to get them correct), and also to edit and hone character wants and needs in the first act of the book.

It takes a lot of focus and I don’t always have that. It requires a certain audacity, and I don’t always have that either, but I can sneak up on my writing like a ninja and do my thing, knowing that the focus and the audacity will likely follow.

I don’t want to be a writer.

I am one.

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