Forget It

I'm not going to be a writer anymore

I can’t just say, “Forget it, I’m not going to be a writer anymore.” It doesn’t work that way for me. I am a writer, whether I’m actively at work doing it, or not. I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember. Over my lifetime I’ve probably written a couple hundred poems. Some of them are even pretty good. I’ve written three novels, two of them traditionally published. I’ve written a handful of decent short stories and a number of bad picture book manuscripts. I wrote a successful blog for years, and now I’m fiddling around her on Substack.

I can’t say I’ve got “writer’s block” because I am writing.

I’m creating something out of nothing with my words and putting it on paper. Just last week I wrote a poem. In the past 20 weeks I’ve written and posted 19 posts here on Substack. I’m not blocked, I’m just frustrated as fuck. I haven’t been able to make any headway in my work in progress going on about a year now. And that’s a misnomer because it’s not actually in progress.

I don’t feel like I can just say, “Forget it, I’m not going to write this novel anymore” either. Or rather, I’m unwilling to say that. Because even if my heart and hands aren’t listening, I know in my brain that I can do it. I just don’t seem to be doing it.  I don’t think I’m choosing suffering so I can be miserable and complain and stay stuck. I don’t think so? But I can’t say that with one hundred percent certainty. I’ve absolutely had moments when I’ve done exactly that in other areas of my life. So what is it? Why am I staying here, stuck, suffering, whining on all my social media platforms?

Fucked if I know, my friends. What I also know is that I do have a plan. I’m going to push through to the other side of this. Because I know that whatever is stopping me isn’t out there.

I’m very clear this is an inside job.

And I know how to handle an inside job. I have experience with this. I’m familiar with climbing the mountain, or busting through the brick wall. I’ve mastered how to slay the dragon, or unearth whatever the big nasty is that I’ve buried. I’ve reached Houdini levels of getting myself out of seemingly impossible circumstances, which I’ve also cleverly set up and put myself into, albeit unconsciously.

My original plan for this novel was to fast draft, even though I’ve never fast drafted anything in my life. I also really thought I’d be able to write this novel without all the suffering I underwent writing the others. But guess what? I was wrong! As the saying goes, “We plan and the Universe laughs.”¹ I can tell you this: I will write this novel. It might not be good or ever get published, but I will write it. Because that’s what writers do.

And I can’t not be a writer.

1. It’s a Yiddish saying and it’s actually “We plan and God laughs.” I don’t actually care what the original saying is because I believe in a Universe with a capital U and I love the image of the whole goddam thing laughing at my human foibles.