The writer-mind is subversive; never sure what it wants to believe.
Ask me right now about the book I have spent the last 18 months writing, and I’ll tell you what a folly it is. How absurd it is. How it is an improbability pretending to be something greater.
Ask me tomorrow, and chances are that I’ll tell you something different.
There may be no greater terror for a writer than the fear of self…the shaking dread that the hours of devotion have been wasted…that the intention is noble but the reality is crap. I am not alone in this fear; I’ve heard other writers express it. I expect that many folks who have sought to create an outlandishly original idea have felt as I do. In fact, if one were to look through these Skydiaries posts, all the way back to the months just before the finishing of the previous work, I’d bet that there’s a similar sentiment lurking there, somewhere.
The problem is not knowing which voice is speaking the truth.
Did James Joyce question his will to create a 4,000 word-plus paragraph? Did Isaac Asimov doubt a tale about robots? Did Ray Bradbury have misgivings when telling a story about an illustrated man? In any work that took a chance, did improbability and genius present themselves in equal measure? No, I’m not comparing myself to brilliance. But in the pure humanity that each of us holds in common with greatness, we’re permitted to wonder.
Crippling self-doubt is a waste. Bulletproof self-confidence is equally deadly. The internal rigger that strings the invisible tightrope between the two is notoriously unreliable. Encouragements, as welcome as they are, do nothing to secure one’s footing over time. Discouragements seem much easier to believe.
We hope that we are not capable of delusion; that the good will shine and the bad will readily reveal itself. Work hard enough, we tell ourselves, and the answer will come clear. Listen to the ethers, and the voice will speak true. Yet, paint a turd gold, and it’s still a turd. Or maybe not.
If only an idea’s worth could flash neon from the laptop screen: good. Bad. Idiotic. Intriguing. But sadly, there is no cosmic tastemaker, telling it like it is.
Tonight, not a good night. Tomorrow may be better. So here’s what this writer is going to do tomorrow: commit again. My prayer to the writer-spirit…If the thing is impossibly absurd, let it be that. If I am completely wrong, let me be. Until I get it right. Until I learn to recognize the difference.