Tuesday will serve as an example of how it is when I wake up most days. I opened my eyes, looking at the trees out the window, turned back the covers, sat up on the edge of the bed, and thought What am I going to do today? The first thing that came to mind was I’ll have Lily go to a conference.
I was thinking about a chapter in the novel I’m working on. I was not even truly awake yet, thinking about the book. That chapter was what I was going to do that day, and everything else in between (like going to work) was just the stuff I had to move out of the way to get to what mattered.
That’s how it is. I wake up thinking about writing, and I wait to get to it in the evenings. I feel enthused, not only about this book, but about the next book, which I’m already planning, and about the books I intend to write after that. In my life, I’ve never been more on fire to write.
Alternate Reality No. 2: Antimatter
An email came on Wednesday. A couple of months or so ago I went to a writers conference to try to sell a completed novel. Two literary agents and one editor agreed to look at a sample of the book, and if they like that, then they ask for more, and so on until—in some abstruse theory understood only by wizards and magicians—someone says “Yes, I’ll take your book”.
The Wednesday email said no. After decades of doing this, I should be used to rejection, right? How many times have I contacted a literary agent? Either in person or by mail, more than 150 times. How many times have I sent short stories to literary magazines? Three or four hundred times, as best I’ve counted (granted, twelve stories were published). How many times does that make being told “no”? It is still bad.
I’ve heard some of the magical stories, about a writer finding an agent after only thirty tries (presented as a story of “look how hard this was”), or about multiple agents offering to represent the same book. To me those stories are like science fiction or ancient mythology, absolutely divorced from any reality I know.
The difficulty of finding success isn’t just me, obviously. I am merely one of multitudes. By chance, I also read an article just last night about a writer who I recently discovered, Donal Ryan, who had a very successful book (The Spinning Heart) that won awards and gained quite a bit of attention. It seems that after this extremely successful book—far more than most books get—he found himself having to go back to his job with the civil service to be able to pay his bills.
Does It Matter?
I live in both of these worlds—enthusiastic passion to write, and empty voids of no recognition, so contradictory to one another, as though they cannot both exist. It is like matter and antimatter. Why don’t they just destroy each other? (That’s what physicists say would happen if they meet. Howdy, boom!) How is it possible to be excited with almost a religious ecstay to be writing, even while struggling with almost no result for decades. Not years, decades.
I suppose I’ve made it look like I’m asking rhetorical questions here, as to what keeps a person engaged and enthusiastic. Maybe it seems like I’ll answer that question, but I won’t, because I don’t know the answer. I do not know how this paradox can exist. I do, however, know that what does matter is living with a purpose. Otherwise, we are nothing more than collections of particles with unfulfillable desires—matter that does not matter.
For me, writing and creativity are that purpose, with fireworks.