December 21, 2010
Foolishly, I had thought I was done with the struggles. I don’t mean with money or recognition. I don’t even mean finding my voice—I’m always learning something new. The struggle is with myself.
I’ve always been my harshest critic. I can never fully exorcise that voice in my head. It’ll disappear for moments only to come roaring back. It pushes through the successes, ripping doubts from my skull-space and forging them, beating them into a vicious Möbius strip of nigh self-loathing. Sure, it whispers to me, you had a story published, but that’s it—it’s the most you can ever hope for. You won that contest—so, what? Someone raved about your story—so, what? Now, you’ve got pressure to produce, you fucking looser. Good luck with that.
The dystopian undulations of the Möbius Strip of Shame starts me thinking too much. I start doubting. I start second guessing everything: paragraphs, sentences, dialogue, grammar, and even the goddamned comma. Story construction and dialogue feel forced and hollow. My brain traps itself in a Catch-22 circuit. I write and re-write the same paragraph, aching for one sentence that sounds…not good but just right. Hours tic away. I get nowhere. That one sentence twists and further feeds the angst circle—see, you’ve been here for hours and what do you have?
One poorly written sentence.
Rationally, I know it’s all bullshit. I know it’s in my head. I know I can write. I know I can construct a sentence. Away from the keyboard, I can even step back and be objective. Work has been stressful the last several months. We’ve had a tremendous amount of students in crisis. A number of personal medical appointments have eaten free time and mad money. Remodeling the kitchen has, until very recently, been the focus of every weekend for almost two months. Thursday will be the start of the first real vacation I’ve had in well over a year. Stress has been stoking these fires and choking me with black smoke.
I know all of it.
And I know I’ll get through. It’s just frustrating—I wish I could discover some easy means of pushing it all away when it starts, cutting the Möbius Strip so it unfolds and unfurls into multi-dimensional sides.
What do you do?
December 20, 2010
On Day Labor, the Crime Factory blog, Keith has been running a feature called "The Best of Whatever." Writers have been weighing in almost daily on their picks for 2010. Recently, he posted his own list of the best short stories.
I'm very proud to see that "Ghostman on Third" made the cut. I think it's one of my best stories. It's nice to see that recognized, especially by Keith. My companions on the list just make it sweeter.
December 13, 2010
Rather than text books and articles, suprisingly, my main source of information has been correspondence. The letters I've found have easily cut straight through the immense amount of bullshit I've come up against, giving me a very precise portrait of the man I'm researching, and suggested avenues of exploration that I wouldn't have thought of on my own.
Today, however, I realized that soon researchers won't have this for a resource. No one writes letters anymore. Not honest-to-goodness letters on paper tucked into an envelope, sealed, and then mailed. It's all e-mails and tweets and Facebook statuses.
For me, an e-mail has never carried the same sort of personal weight and attachment; even with my generation probably being the last to remember what it was like to write and mail a letter, and wait for a response. Beyond any question of weight, emotional or personal, there's the problem of conservation. I know I don't save e-mails the same way I save letters. Unless it's a bill receipt or some important bit of information I know I'm going to need again, it get's tossed.
What does that mean for future researches?
I suppose the argument can be made that blogs will provide the same source of information that we get now from reading someone's personal correspondence. But I still think those are two very different beasts. There's a stark difference between what I'm willing to tell everyone and what I'm willing to tell someone.