Sharla Dawn Gorder

This is me, sitting at my piano 42 years ago–and I feel exactly the same way, sitting at my desk today!

I sat down at my computer this morning before dawn, as I do most mornings, to write.  But this morning I just did NOT want to be there.  For a couple of months now, I’ve been working on the final, grueling changes my editor suggests for my book, and I’m just worn out.  This part of the process is brutal on the ego no matter how valid the criticisms are.  Still, I dragged my hiney into my office at 5:45 A.M. and wrote: 

 

Back at the page.

I’m actually proud of myself.  I’d rather go get a pap smear this morning than write.  I haven’t felt this discouraged about writing in a long time.  It’s tough—to feel so dispirited about the one thing I thought I might excel a little at.  But beyond that, writing is the one thing that has kind of defined me for most of my life.  If I don’t write, I’m not really me.

And here’s the even suckier thing:  As I wrote the above paragraph I second guessed every other word—No, wait, was it every other word, or every third word?  Or maybe it was every other word in the first sentence and only every fourth word in the second.  Get it right, you hack.  Get it right!  Did you really end a sentence with a preposition in the opening paragraph?  And would you REALLY truly rather have a pap smear than write this morning?  Is that the gospel truth?  (So then why are you writing?) And why the hell did you use the word gospel in the same line with pap smear?  Ick.  And how many metaphors can you mix in 300 words or less?  And, you idiot, this isn’t close to 300 words; it’s only 188.  The word count is right there at the bottom of the page. Don’t hyperbolize.  And do you really think a semi-colon is the right choice for that sentence back there? And hyperbolize?  Really, can’t you just say exaggerate?  What’s with all the big words?  Who do you think you are?

I don’t know this morning.  And not knowing sucks.  Yes, I’m going to just say that, and let it stand.  Not knowing sucks.  I’m not going to qualify that statement with “in my opinion” or “sometimes” or “to me, at this time” or any other added words that might make the statement inarguably true for all sentient beings in the universe.  I’m not going to clean up the language to make it appropriate for preschoolers and inoffensive to Jerry Falwell.  (Besides, the former can’t read, and the latter is dead—and yes, I know that some preschoolers can indeed read, but Mr. Falwell is irrevocably deceased. I got that sentence, at least, half right.)

Not knowing sucks.  Even the Bible addresses the whole “not knowing” conundrum in Corinthians:  “For now, we see through a glass darkly…”  Bohemian poet, Rainer Rilke urged his young protégé to, “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves.”   Even Gilda Radner weighed in on it toward the end of her life, called it “Delicious Ambiguity.”

Oh, but it just doesn’t taste yummy to me today.  Not knowing who I am this morning makes it really hard to know what I should be doing.  If I am a writer, well then, I should be writing, specifically working on my editor’s revisions of my book.  But looking at page after page after page of strikethroughs, question marks, sloppily scrawled criticisms, and giant X’s over entire paragraphs on my manuscript, is starting to get to me.  It was okay for the first hundred or so pages—not fun, but doable.  But now, I’m just so discouraged, I’m not only second guessing the project, but I’m second guessing myself. 

And that is not healthy, and I’m gonna stop, I swear I am.  I really shouldn’t be labeling myself in the first place.  Nor should I be “should-ing” myself.  Ah, so many damn rules!

I googled “discouragement” a few minutes ago, and it seems that the most commonly prescribed antidote is “perseverance.”  Well, duh. But I did finally find a suggestion that was pretty helpful.  The gist of it was this:  When discouragement sucks the wind out of your sails, and you’re beginning to feel depressed, stick to the facts.

I can do that.  I have done it before—and during times far more challenging than these.  Even when the facts truly do seem horrible as with the untimely death of a loved one, or a scary medical diagnosis, the facts tend to clear the air for me, so that I can see more truth.

I love Augusten Burroughs take on it:  “This is among the oldest, deepest, most primal truths:  the facts of life may be, at times, unbearably painful.  But the core, the bones of life are generous beyond all reason or belief.”

Ah, there she is!  Just when you thought I’d finally killed off the little Pollyanna in me, she’s back.  And that’s the magic of the “facts” and yes, of perseverance.  I am compelled to write.  It’s a personal truth of mine.  And even though I was loath to do the hard work of hammering out problems in my manuscript this morning, I still just had to write something.  And as long as I write, I am a writer.

Writers write.  See, I just wrote these 813 words.  And I’m even going to be brave and let you read them.  Never mind that I didn’t do exactly what I set out to do—which was work on the edits of my book.  There’s still time for that.

But first, I think I’ll call my gynecologist.