I’m writing a book

For much of the past week, I have been stuck in the mind-numbing quagmire of routine and repetition that is jury selection.

In addition to bestowing upon me the newfound identity of Juror #5 on an upcoming case (on which I can’t elaborate obviously), the selection process provided me with some much-appreciated reading time, during which I plowed through the strangely comforting The Courage To Write: How Writers Transcend Fear by Ralph Keyes.

A few months ago, I decided to write a book. The thought had been bubbling in my brain for a while, but finally, one day, out loud, as God—or rather, my husband—as my witness, I declared, “Damn the torpedoes, I’m going to write a book.” Or some words of the like.

I won’t pretend that this was the smartest decision of my life. I’ve made some boldly-gone doozies over the years, so this particular one has some stiff competition; but evaluated on its own merits, it’s likely fairly stupid. Exhilarating, but stupid. To make this decision’s worth really stand out, it managed to schedule itself just as the US was creeping ever-so-quietly over an economic hump in order to toss its arms wildly into the air and send itself freefalling into decrapitude.

One would think that, in addition to a strong sense of determination and dementia, it would take a bit of courage to turn away from any hope of a paying career or financial solvency in order to pursue a dream—and, in a way, it does—but tossing off a casual “what the hell” or a defiant “carpe diem” at the idea of drafting a literary masterpiece is a great deal easier than sitting down at the desk and actually, you know, doing it. Just gathering the strength to say “I’m writing a book” has taken many months, gin and tonics, and a thousand deaths, yet the words still send liquid streaming down the back of my throat.

“I’m writing a book.” It sounds so pretentious. Self-important. Over-inflated. “Book” is just too big of a word for a project with no actual future. No literary agents or publishing deals wait breathlessly for a manuscript. No audience exists outside of the 150ish people who already know the plot because they were there. This “book” is just me and a computer and a story that I’m compelled to tell. But “thing” is too vague and “huge-ass mother-fucker writing project” is too huge-ass to repeat again and again, so although “book” in these circumstances falls short in the “public pages bound between two covers” sense, it comes close enough in the “writing project that is bigger than a breadbox and smaller than a wiki” sense. As a word, “book” is mostly accurate and economical, an important quality to have these days.

So, suffice it to say, I’m writing a book. Which to a romantic mind sounds very exciting, conjuring up images of hard-boiled lighting angles, smoky ice clanging against stocky glass tumblers, and multiple cigarettes lit and burning down to varying lengths; but which in reality, ain’t.

I read the forums. I surf the net. I empty the dishwasher. I load the dishwasher. I research. I write. I empty the dishwasher again. I pick up milk and try to remember to water the plants. I write some more. I check my email. I write some more. I check my email. I reach a decent clip of writing, then find myself on Wikipedia wondering how I got halfway through an article about The Troubles. I make soup. In the morning I brew moderately upscale coffee; in the evening I uncork definitively downscale cabernet. At my left hand Whitman, Wordsworth, and Wallace complain of my gab and my loitering; outside lies the ‘burbs. And in the middle is me—am I—trying to write. Sometimes trying to write something good. Mostly just trying not to suck.

I’ve spent months writing, unwriting, and rewriting posts for this blog in an effort to determine its purpose; most posts have been revoked with no warning but with plenty of self-disgust. This blog should reflect what I’m doing, but what I’m doing is not easily described, an amorphous, often pissy process with scores of flailing arms and half a dozen contentious heads. But there must be something to say; there must be some sort of value in trying to record this process, if only as a warning beacon to others on how not to go about writing a book.

I’m not especially comfortable writing about myself, let alone as a work-in-progress. I’ve never written a book before. I have no real idea what I’m doing. But I’m doing it. Or at least I’m trying.

This is me trying.

Tagged as: blog, fear, green flag, self-consciousness, writing