“The problem, if anything, was the opposite. I had too much to write.”
This would not have been my original choice of quote for this entry, but that was the kind of day I had today, except that I have done very little actual writing. A few lines of thoughts for a poem, the first page of a story, and maybe the last few lines. I wrote an outline for the story and I finally figured out what is supposed to happen in the middle of it, which is good, because I wrote about sixty pages of the beginning and was going to need a middle to bridge to after that. Enough about me, the day has not set on the writing activities, nor the reading ones, so we can try and pull out a victory.
I’d spent my whole life waiting to awake on an ordinary morning in the town that was destined to be my home, in the arms of the woman I was destined to love, knowing the people and doing the work that would make up the changing but essentially invariable landscape of my particular destiny.
I wonder to myself if I want to live the kind of life Grady leads. On the surface, he has been a published writer, respected enough to get a teaching job, he went out and had his On the Road adventure. He works everyday, but the work he does has taken on a Sisyphean quality (a word I can use, but can’t spell… thanks Microsoft). He has an editor, from where I am on the writing road all of these things seem like great successes, except for the godlike punishment of writing a never ending book, I like my stories most when they come to an end, because that’s the point that is so hard to get to.
This has been my favorite of the Chabon books I’ve read, it will probably be the last one I read for some time. This year, at least. It was about a writer struggling with his craft and his life, of course I was going to like it, it almost didn’t even matter that it was good. I think that it helps to confront the great romantic question that writers end up having to make. If they are going to follow that Kerouac adventure, or if they are going to be normal people living normal lives, who happen to be housing glorious adventures. I’m not saying which way is write, and which way is wrong. I don’t like On the Road and therein lays my answer. Everybody’s life is its own adventure, some people hunt for inspiration like it is the last of the buffalo, others just look to be motivated at a specific time every morning when they sit down with their coffee and start writing. I don’t think the type of life you lead matters all that much at all, as long as you are content with it once you sit down at the page (or word processor).
I am content, and I am looking to be happy.
I guess this one was more about me.