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Writing Log 10-22-11

This afternoon, I headed toward UVU to start writing. Gayle had taken the boys, I was at leisure to begin writing....

...So I went to Barnes and Noble instead. It wasn't that I wasn't keen to get writing--I kind of was. Yesterday was a fairly okay day, putting in the other half of the chapter I had started the day before. But it wasn't the sort of thing that's super inspiring and encouraging. Plus, I knew that I wasn't hungry enough to eat lunch right away, but I didn't have enough in my stomach to last me until the library closed at 5:00. With those thoughts in mind, I decided to browse a little bit before going to lunch, which turned out to be a mixed bag.

The con side came in the fact that it was local author day at Barnes and Noble. I did the typical shopper thing--what I would surely dislike or downright despise if I ever became a local author--and glanced over their books and didn't engage any of them at all. Now, to be fair, there were quite a few people there, and almost every author was engaged in chatting it up with someone. So at least I wasn't completely ignoring the poor souls (except for the two ladies who had a cookbook they had made; faking interest in that would've been too dishonest for karma). But, at the same time, I feel like if I put interest into what others are writing, it'll build up some sort of positive, pay-it-forward kind of thing (I'd call it karma, but I already used that word. So I won't do it again). Somewhat guilt stricken, I still didn't talk to them. Part of my reasoning went along these lines: I was looking for a bit of a recharge, rather than a sales pitch. I muttered to myself (more than once), "I have no money. I have no money," as I walked around. Also, I didn't want to give the false impression of interest or possibly buying. It just didn't feel honest. Thus with cautious words I painted myself hypocrite and left the store. (The pro side is that I read an awesome introduction to Milton's Paradise Lost that I'll use with my students on Monday, and it got me in the mood to write.)

After lunch, I headed to the library with 3 hours before they closed. I figured if I wrote my normal (just over 1,000 words an hour), I'd have a pretty descent sized chapter by the end. They ended up closing just five minutes after I finished my 4,500+ word chapter, kicking me out before I could write my blog post. It was one of those "Muse of fire" days, and that is really reaffirming for me.

Brandon Sanderson and Purpose

I will probably bring up Brandon Sanderson frequently on this blog, as he is a major inspiration to me and I'm a pretty big fan. I've attended his signings, listened to his podcasts, and bought just about all of his books on opening day/week. I've listened to a reading of his, attended a Q&A, and even got a couple of Advanced Reading Copies (called ARCs in 'the biz') of his Mistborn books. Two anecdotes will suffice right here.

Anecdote one:
I attended a Life, the Universe, and Everything symposium at BYU a couple of years ago, during which time Sanderson sat in on a panel about LDS authors and fantasy. To be honest, I attended it specifically because Sanderson was speaking; I'm not really interested in writing in the LDS genre, but I was interested to hear about how he and others viewed the reality of being a writer of science-fiction/fantasy when there's a prevalent (if, perhaps, extradoctrinal) tendency to judge anything outside of the Standard Works as not being 'the best books' and, therefore, worthless.

During the panel, someone asked the question why Sanderson would write genre fiction. He said this, and I'm pretty sure this is an almost exact quote: "One of the two times I've had a distinct spiritual impression was when I was told by the Spirit that I should be a fantasy writer."

That really struck me. I, of course, have not had that particular experience. (I did have a really strong impression--about four years ago--to not pursue my writing as a profession. That came whilst in the temple, and it really depressed me. Thinking back on it, though, I realize that if I had tried to launch my writing career then, I would've missed my teaching opportunity at Maeser and the expansion of influence, interest, and intelligence that I've gained because of that job. It's entirely possible that it was a temporal revelation, and sometime in the future I will receive different instruction.) Despite being bereft of that happy assurance, I have since felt that my writing cannot be for ill, as it is something that so fully infuses me and my perception of the world. It would be quite bizarre, I think, if such strong tendencies were put in to me and acting on them equated to sinning. Of course, having a spiritual prompting about continuing writing doesn't necessarily mean that I'm supposed to be a full-time author or anything. But it's still something that I think about.

And that's kind of why, I think, Sanderson's confession so impacted me. I'm anxious to begin, to be a "writer". I sometimes wonder--and don't tell Gayle this--if I might get fired, just so I'd have an excuse to write more. It's horrible, irresponsible, certainly misguided, and completely true. I don't want to lose my job; I don't want to stop teaching. But I can't help but wonder what I could accomplish if I had but time. (This weekend, of course, showing me that there is something to be said about such focused attention.)

Anecdote two:


I stood in line in Borders (back when there was a Borders) to get a copy of Warbreaker signed by Brandon Sanderson. I eavesdropped a little to the conversation in front of me, pretended to read the front flap, and generally stood feeling really stupid. Part of the reason why I was so hypocritical at B&N today was because, paradoxically, I get really nervous when speaking to a single person out of the blue. I'm perfectly fine addressing a crowd--I'll address an assembly, a collection of students, a ward, whatever. It usually gives, at most, a single squirt of nervousness in my stomach. But I get all sweaty-palmed and nerve-wracked when addressing a stranger, whether it be a store-clerk, a telephone agent, or an author.

So there I was, standing in line, waiting to buy a book from Brandon Sanderson, someone whose writing I had admired and for whom, I'll admit, I had no small amount of envy. Certainly nothing personal, but I was jealous about his success.

When my turn arrived, I handed him my books (I was getting the first Alcatraz book signed, too), told him my name, and said, "Thanks, by the way, for the Writing Excuses podcasts. I really enjoy them, and I use them to help my students, too."

"Oh, are you a writer?"

"I do write," I said, unable to meet his gaze. "Part time. Full-time aspirant, though."

He looked at me with a thoughtful, inscrutable look on his face. "You'll be a writer, too," he said.

In my book, he wrote, Steve, You can do it, too! Then a squiggle I take to mean a signature.

I've reflected on that, too. I'm not sure what the undecipherable look was all about. He had no indication of recognition (and who could blame him? He's met thousands of fans, after all) when I saw him at his Way of Kings signing. I'm pragmatic enough to think of it as a pro supporting an amateur, yet I'm hopeful enough to view it more of a mentor/mentee sort of thing. It's rather hard to describe, because I feel like it's significant, but, at the same time, I've little indication to think that's really true--at least, not right now.

Reservations

The reason I mention these anecdotes is because I keep having moments of crisis. It happens to everyone; Neil Gaiman, I've heard, had a similar sort of existential crisis right before finishing American Gods, one of his best-received books. But mine is, of course, different.

While waiting to turn left off of Sate Street, I rubbed my hands across my brow and thought, "What am I doing? Why am I doing this?" I thought of the comment I mentioned earlier, that I write because I have to, because it's better than the soul-sucking alternative of not writing. I mean, one of the writers in the group sent an email last night saying that he wasn't going to be a part of the group anymore, as he doesn't feel like writing. I think, in a sense, I partially panicked at that thought. What if the feeling is contagious, and not the passing trick of lunacy that it's always been for me in the past? What would I do if I could no longer write?

Two parts of who I am began to war within me: the writer, the one who is always inclined to repeat observations in his head until they come across poetically or with greater narrative flair; and the pragmatic, panicky, worry-wart part that says I'm absolutely mental for putting fathering on hold, husbanding on hold, school study and preparation on hold--essentially, all of the real and pertinent parts of life on hold--simply to traipse through an imaginary world of my own creation.

The war is never really won. I have to decide every time I sit down that I do want to write and I do want it to be worthwhile and interesting and compelling. I want my characters to brim with reality, despite the impossibility of their world. I want the world to sparkle with reality, even though it's all fake. I want the reader to read, not because of a personal or friendly relation to me but because of a genuine desire to see the story unfold. I sit and I try, always with mixed results.

Today, I wrote. I wrote well, I think. The words that I put down will likely stay there with relatively few modifications. And I have to keep telling myself that it doesn't matter if Sanderson is right about me--it only matters that I keep trying. I will make it as a writer but only if I write.
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