I must confess I believed writing would be one of the easiest jobs I had ever undertaken. I envisioned myself pumping out Tolkienesque novels every month and believed it would be a small matter to complete the 100+ novel story arc I had envisioned. I don't know what the source of this arrogance might be, other than I was absolutely certain I had been born to write, and the story I wanted to tell was important.
I quickly discovered that my low opinion of writing exacerbated a typical problem for writers: the inability to write with any value for extended periods. I immediately settled into a routine wherein I accepted as little as one paragraph of progress as suitable effort for a day. From there, I would indulge in "working on my plot" by "thinking about it" - i.e. playing games or watching movies until I felt like sleeping again.
I was a lousy writer. I built lousy habits for myself and it took years before I could bring myself to the point of honest evaluation. I would call this merely unfortunate if I weren't actively engaged in murdering my own dreams. I think it is fair to reveal that I had seven years of full-time writing opportunity. THe sum total accomplishment realized in all of this time was one book that I desperately wanted to be amazing. It wasn't amazing, for the record. It wasn't terrible either, but I have to admire those who possessed enough persistence to actually read the whole thing. It is not an easy read. It doesn't even approach an easy read.
I was able to recognize some of these problems, but instead of facing them head-on, I felt they must stem from my unique style. This is partially true, actually. It wasn't a bad observation, but it was leveraged to a less than desirable result: no effort at improvement. This is because I failed to recognize the problematic parts of what I was doing. I didn't recognize my perpetual need for improvement and used stylistic concerns like a shield to protect myself against legitimate criticism.
Toward the end of the writing period gifted to me, I began to realize my need to adjust and re-prioritize my approach to writing. I began to seriously consider the idea that I might need to invest in marketability. Much of this was motivated by a false purpose though. When I began writing, it was with the firm conviction that my work would not be based on profit, but on the art of the story. Watching my full-time writer lifestyle dwindle and seeing its end on the horizon made me think I needed to find a way to force it to be profitable.
I certainly could have been a for-profit writer. I had the time to make it happen. I even had the advice to tell me what I would need to do. Alas, I took advantage of exactly none of these resources. I waited until all was lost and tried to scrape together a plan to retain some semblance of what I was about to give up. It didn't work. I gave it up.
Like a true millennial, I was devastated by the loss of my convenience. Not the loss of my dream, mind. I could no more lose my dream than I could lose my brain. But I felt like the loss of convenience was equivalent to the loss of my dream, so I got angry, I mentally laid blame in some really bizarre places and... I gave up. I stopped writing.
There is a small amount of tragedy in this. Tragedy in the sense that I had actually made some respectable progress in writing capability through the process of writing my second book. It wasn't quite the marketable wonder that I thought it would be, but it was markedly better than my first attempt. I had made progress, which I failed to recognize. I gave it up when I gave up and I let whatever skill I had gained languish and dissipate until I returned to the beginning.
I was sore about it. Yet, I have never received anything other than support from the people around me. Nobody pushed me to give up my dreams. Nobody pushed me to turn my dreams into something dissatisfying. I did all of that on my own and was left with nobody to blame but myself. I've not been able to face up to this. I don't know if I will ever be able to face up to it. I do know that I would like to deal with it and get back on track. I would like to rejoin the journey toward becoming a great writer. Maybe I am not destined to be a great writer. Maybe that is alright. Perhaps it should be enough that I write. Writing is what I've always wanted to do.
I think there is something to be said for the fact that being a great writer is different from being a great writer. One is universally lauded and their thoughtful prose is appreciated wherever literacy thrives. The other is just a person who is exceptional at the act of writing. I have aimed at the former and missed widely. I should like to aim for the latter, which is the only reasonable aim to have. It is surprising to me how long it has taken to internalize the reality that focusing on the former kind of greatness is a waste of time and effort. I have known this for as long as I can remember, yet I continue to countermand my own knowledge. The only true aim of any writer is to chase after the latter greatness.
In this realization I can begin to internalize the wisdom of the advice so often given: to simply write. Writing as often as possible and as diligently as possible is the only path to greatness. There is no sense in chasing mythical greatness. It comes and goes with a whim and a whisper. If I am to have it, I will have it - possibly despite my best efforts. True greatness - the greatness of writing ability - is no whim at all. It is an endlessly sinking mountain. Climb with determination and I may soon reach the summit. Stop climbing and I will assuredly sink back to the bottom.
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