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Writing time; Lady of Shalott
I used to devote a block of time every night, 8:30 to 10:00 p.m., Monday through Thursday to writing, when I was working on my last two books. But then I was badly blocked after finishing Swans, and gradually, in the years since then, that writing time was given up to other things as stuff was added to our schedule and time got squeezed out. Monday night is family night and also the night Rob and I do our weekly money meeting. The girls are staying up later now. I’m getting up earlier now to exercise, so I’ve been going to bed earlier, too. And I’ve gotten on the Internet since writing my last two books, too, and the delights of LiveJournal, etc., have also eaten into my time.
But I’ve added the sliver of writing time in the morning, and now I’ve decided to re-devote at least Thursday nights to writing (after the girls are in bed). No LiveJournal, or at least not until after 10:00. This is a step in the right direction, and I hope to gradually add more. I’m starting to feel like a real writer again. It may sound funny to hear that someone who had written two books and seen them published might doubt that she’s a real writer, but that’s what the block did to me. It is such a relief to feel that things are moving in the right direction again, and that I’m regularly sitting down to write and sometimes, sometimes words even come out of that mysterious place where my imagination resides. Some of them are even pretty good.
I was listening today to Loreena McKennitt’s rendition of "The Lady of Shalott" on her album "Live in Paris and Toronto," and it occurred to me today for the first time that here is another story about heart of flesh/heart of stone. When the Lady looked at Lancelot—allowed herself to love, in other words—the "mirror crack’d from side to side." I think of A.S. Byatt’s essay on ice=glass=stone. Becoming human means daring to love. Unfortunately, her daring only brings her death. (How depressing!)
Isn’t that what I’m writing about in this book? Becoming human/choosing the heart of flesh/loving means accepting impermanence/death (like the fact that the ice palace will melt). Lois McMaster Bujold said (was it in Barrayar?) that bringing a child into the world means bringing in a new life--and a new death. Rolf hopes to cheat death by living forever. Solveig (and later Jack) opposing him, know better. They live and love, but that means accepting that they will die.
Hmm. (Goes off to think some more.)
Peg
But I’ve added the sliver of writing time in the morning, and now I’ve decided to re-devote at least Thursday nights to writing (after the girls are in bed). No LiveJournal, or at least not until after 10:00. This is a step in the right direction, and I hope to gradually add more. I’m starting to feel like a real writer again. It may sound funny to hear that someone who had written two books and seen them published might doubt that she’s a real writer, but that’s what the block did to me. It is such a relief to feel that things are moving in the right direction again, and that I’m regularly sitting down to write and sometimes, sometimes words even come out of that mysterious place where my imagination resides. Some of them are even pretty good.
I was listening today to Loreena McKennitt’s rendition of "The Lady of Shalott" on her album "Live in Paris and Toronto," and it occurred to me today for the first time that here is another story about heart of flesh/heart of stone. When the Lady looked at Lancelot—allowed herself to love, in other words—the "mirror crack’d from side to side." I think of A.S. Byatt’s essay on ice=glass=stone. Becoming human means daring to love. Unfortunately, her daring only brings her death. (How depressing!)
Isn’t that what I’m writing about in this book? Becoming human/choosing the heart of flesh/loving means accepting impermanence/death (like the fact that the ice palace will melt). Lois McMaster Bujold said (was it in Barrayar?) that bringing a child into the world means bringing in a new life--and a new death. Rolf hopes to cheat death by living forever. Solveig (and later Jack) opposing him, know better. They live and love, but that means accepting that they will die.
Hmm. (Goes off to think some more.)
Peg
no subject
"Read like a butterfly and write like a bee."
I find your posts fascinating because you are a writer. An active published writer. A REAL writer.
I always feel like a liar when I tell people I'm a writer - because I don't have a book I can hand them. And I just got turned down by 6 MFA programs. (Wait-listed at Sarah Lawrence) I only have a few small publications. And I go for periods of up to a month without doing any serious writing.
I know I have to get back into a routine of working every day or at least most days.
My novel is unfinished - my novella is unfinished. I have short story ideas coming out of my ears...
I should never have let myself start writing fanfic... Though I do learn from that too.
Thanks Peg. You are amazing.
-katie
no subject
Don't believe it. If you write, you're a writer. And only snobs chop it up into "serious" and "not-serious." Go read some Julia Cameron, and you'll feel better. ;-)
And we all have slack/fallow periods. Those are needed, too, and part of the process. I think of the writing life as being like Hemingway's "iceberg": most of the process is submerged below the surface of the ocean, and the part that is visible -- the tip of the iceberg -- is just a small portion of the whole.
My own mother snorted at me in a phone conversation when I referred to myself as a writer. "Since when?" she said. "Since, what the hell do you think I've been doing with my life for the past fifteen or twenty years?" I said.
See, I got caught in the trap of defining myself by what I do to pull a paycheck, when the truth is that it is the act of reading and reflecting and writing and discussing ideas that is my true Occupation (yes, capital O) in life.
I'm currently cashiering to pull in the income, and looking for additional part-time employment to fill the gaps. In the past I've been a web site editor, computer operator, and all around office worker and word processor. But none of that is who I am. And when I recently caught myself telling an interviewer that my occupation is "cashier," I said to myself, whoa, whoa, whooooaaaa.
And I have vowed, from this time forward, to always give "writer" as my occupation, regardless of whether I am currently getting published and regardless of whether I am making so much as a penny from that writing.