Lilith Saintcrow

So I hit 50K on my NaNoWriMo project last night–after the kitchen was cleaned up. (This is for book 2 of the Strange Angels series, you can preorder the first one here.) Just after that I finished reading Kage Baker’s The Graveyard Game. I went to bed feeling like a champion. It’s a precious feeling.

So often I feel like I’m just juggling fiery things; like it’s all I can do to grab the next chainsaw as it starts to come down and send it back up. Part of this dynamic is simple–it’s how I like it, when I’m running near full capacity I don’t feel lazy. Part of the dynamic is complex–a stew of work ethic plus fierce perfectionism and the thought that maybe if I work hard and fast and good enough “they” will love me. That component is a pure search for the approval I never had as a child, and it’s so useful I have kept it even though it drives me crazy.[1]

I don’t know what I would be without driving myself so hard. I get a funny squirrelly feeling when I think of maybe not demanding as much from myself. The dark side of it is this feeling that I could be doing better no matter how hard I work, which can tip one into a cycle of self-destructive chewing at the leather straps of life.

While I don’t quite advocate this for other writers (Jesus, who in their right mind would, even if it works for me?) I still think it is crucial for a writer to have an internal drive. I will even go so far as to say this drive has to be higher than average. Nobody is standing over you with a truncheon making you write. An editor will not be calling you every day to see if you’ve gotten your wordcount in. You’re expected to produce and turn in a reasonably finished product, because it’s what you’re contracted for. The daily slog of writing work requires that you be your own boss; if you expect to make a living from writing you have to have not only the drive to make your craft better and deal with rejection but the self-imposed will to work every damn day to get the job done without someone poking at you.

It’s a lonely road.

I’ve worked in offices and I’ve worked retail; I’ve even worked in manufacturing. In each instance I could cope with having micromanagers, but I worked much better when I was given an objective and then left alone to do it. This translated out very well to writing, but it was more of a handicap while working, say, retail. It was a big problem in office work. I wanted to give my best–but unfortunately, the manager wanted to “control” or wanted their emotional needs filled in a way that didn’t mesh with me producing my best.

So often (not all the time, mind you, but often) people get into management because they’re good bureaucratic sociopaths. But that’s another blog post.

Writing for a living requires a completely different set of skills than office work. Working retail is good for gathering material–Christ, is it ever–but the skills you develop there don’t serve you in very good stead when it’s just you and the keyboard and the blood-tinted sweat prickling on your forehead.

This is why when I say “writer” I’m referring to someone who wants to make a living from this thing, or at least have a reasonable chance of consistently getting published.[2] A lot of hobbyists call themselves writers; that’s not a bad thing. But I do think there’s a dearth of professional advice. A lot of people engage in speshul snowflakery or just plain obfuscation over writing.

Don’t get me wrong. There is a mystery at the heart of every creative endeavor. That’s why it’s Creation. It’s one of the biggest mysteries known to us. But there’s also a paradox–hard work and discipline prepare the ground for that mystery (the harder I work, the luckier I get syndrome) and prepare the ground for making a living from that mystery. Sculpting and painting require a certain amount of technical proficiency (don’t throw “modern” art at me here, please); I don’t know why people like to think writing is any different. That technical proficiency goes hand in hand with hard work and discipline. Making a living from writing requires that hard work, discipline, technical proficiency, and creativity.

It’s no wonder it feels like juggling fiery chainsaws.

Anyway, this is why I think NaNo is good for a lot of writers or hobbyists who think they might want to become writers. The process of having a this kind of goal–brute output–and a deadline does wonderful things for those people suited to it. It can also teach a professional writer a refinement or two on the nature of their own creative and self-imposed drive. The skills and drive to become a professional writer, to make a living at this jazz, are not some collection of arcana only shown to those with the Golden Handshake. Like any skills, they can be practiced, learned, fiddled with, and tweaked for a particular personality or set of circumstances. Thinking about how you’re going to solve the problem of being self-driven, how you’re going to arrange things to get yourself through fifty thousand words or so, is immensely valuable.

Great ideas are good. Practiced craft and discipline to convey those ideas is better, and is totally learnable. Practiced discipline and self-drive to get those ideas out into the world, to deal with submissions guidelines and editors and deadlines and copyedits and all that Other Stuff is the best of all, because the work isn’t just languishing in isolation. It is out there doing what it’s meant to do. Each step in the process has its own rewards and pitfalls.

And part of the joy of being self-driven is accomplishing a particular goal, like NaNo, and looking back over the peaks and valleys–and knowing that you walked every inch of that alone. Knowing that you pitted yourself against obstacles and pitfalls, and that you came out ahead. Knowing that you did it, goddammit, and every inch of that victory you sweated for is your own, your very own, your precioussssssss.

It is a wonderful feeling. It should be. Because tomorrow I’m going to have to get up and do it all over again, and if I don’t feel good about it why on earth will I do it? Take your victories where you find them.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to celebrate by taking a walk. Or going out for Thai and getting a mojito. Or maybe just by laying on the floor and feeling like I’ve climbed a mountain and ironed all the wrinkles out of my cerebellum at once.

It’s a small triumph, perhaps. But it’s all mine, and I’ll take it. Tomorrow it’s back to juggling chainsaws.

Today, however, it’s feeling good about the fiery machines I’ve juggled so far.

Over and out.

[1] The conscious choice to keep a particular response is different from suffering that response unconsciously and allowing it to f!ck up your life. At least, that’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.
[2] Do not moan at me about how I don’t have a copyright on the word “writer”. I offer this definition so you know what I’m talking about, in the interests of being as precise and clear as possible. ‘Nuff said.

Related posts:

1. There is too much. Let me sum up.
2. Why Yes, I Am Always This Driven
3. My Temper, and Linkspam

This entry was posted on Friday, November 28th, 2008 at 1:57 pm and is filed under Writing (About). You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.