Tag Archives: writing

Did you know Paul Anka has an album out called Rock Swings with covers of songs like Smells Like Teen Spirit, Wonderwall (one of my fave songs of all time), Jump and Eye of the Tiger? Yeah, I know. Eye of the Tiger. If you have iTunes, charge up the Apple Store and listen to some samples. I’m speechless. And not necessarily in a bad way.

I wasn’t going to write about this but screw it. I did totally officially quit writing the weekend before last. And it was simultaneously heart-breaking and liberating. I’d also been in the process of a pretty determined run at law school and I gave that up too. See my touching story in [cheezy women’s magazine] “I gave up all my dreams on the same day.”

But you know what? This is great. It’s all good.

You need to break it all down before you can build it up again and I need to figure out how to see myself in the world without writing or something intended to make up for it.

I’ve got a great life and work I like and I only have to be there 4 days a week and I don’t have kids and I have an independent husband so I can more or less write my own ticket. And when I think of the things I want to do: garden, cook, yoga, draw, photography, learn German — and so forth. It’s all making things and learning. The other afternoon we had an afternoon rain shower and Bob and I were on the back porch inhaling that incredible fresh smell and I danced around like a little kid: “And I’m going to be an interpretive dancer, and an artist and a photographer, and master chef and a … .”

I’ve spent so much time not doing things because I was preserving time to write — which often, I did not do. So now I’m doing those things. Like yesterday I went to Araline’s for the annual work party. I was berry vine woman. You could argue that I won, but I am covered from wrist to shoulder and knee to ankle in berry scratches. It looks nasty but I’m sure it’s meaningful on some symbolic level.

In the meantime, if I get a yearning to tell a story, I can always drop everything and start writing again. And I do tons of other writing that I like so not like I’m really “quitting.”

This past weekend I cleared off my bookshelves and dumped about 90% of my writing books and cleaned out some notebooks and files of saved articles. It’s like breaking up with a worthless boyfriend. Toss all that shit. Good bye and good riddance.

Seriously. It’s good. Chuck it all right now.

This is a simplified version of a long story of this thing I’m dealing with right now.

Several times in the last many years I have considered “quitting” writing. I’d still jot notes and keep a notebook and write things here. But I’d quit writing fictional stories with an intent for sale. Previously, this idea caused me a great deal of distress.

But I had this notion again a few months ago and I tell you it was like the promise of a monkey off my back. Imagine waking up Saturday morning and not thinking about sitting at my desk all morning trying to do something that other people will like. My best writing time is 6am to Noon so I prefer to avoid anything that will distract me during that time including not staying up too late the night before. I took this idea to the extreme: imagine getting rid of all these stupid writing books on my shelves and emptying out my files of articles and ideas. And all the things I could do with that time instead: cooking, actually gardening vs. just trying to keep things under control, watching sports, visiting with friends. The list goes on.

A big part of my issue is that, particularly in the last year or so, I have begun to loathe writing. It’s like pulling teeth to get my butt in the chair every time. Only 1 out of 3 times do I even manage to produce anything or perhaps experience a moment or two of enjoyment. Who does things for recreation that she hates?

But it bothers me that I now hate something I used to love so much and I know at least partly why and I don’t want to get into a 20 screens of my whole inner psychology, I’m trying to sort this whole thing out.

The point of this post, is that since I had this idea, that I might officially quit this exercise in humiliation and disappointment, I have had two new acquaintances ask to read my manuscript without any urging from me. This is almost as much interest as I had when I actively tried to market the stupid thing.

This morning I cleaned out my writing box — archived stuff that sits in the garage — tracking down the most recent versions and in the bundles of papers I found all kinds of notes of encouragement.

I don’t know. I haven’t made up my mind yet.