Today before class, I saw Colleague C, who co-directs a writing program for our faculty. (It's a fairly unique program for a two-year college, in that its purpose is to encourage faculty writing and research through grants and mini-grants. Two-years are teaching-centric, of course, and the teaching load wears out a body, so it's heartening to see such a program in place. Full disclosure: I received one of said mini-grants in '06 and received course load reduction; it was awfully nice.)
But we were standing there in the library atrium, trading pleasantries, and CC asked me the question that's become the bane of my existence (the albatross around my neck?): "How's the writing going?" And I wasn't bothered that he asked me, because the last time we crossed paths, I was probably writing. But I had to be honest: "It's not." Which triggered anew feelings not unlike those in this post.
CC has a novel to his credit and has just closed the deal on his second novel, which'll be out at the end of the year. I don't begrudge him that one iota. Novels are hard as hell for this ol' boy, let alone short stories, so I tip my hat to anyone who can submerge themselves for that long. But then, he theorized it might be the last novel he has in him, because he's so wiped out from the "non-writing" parts of the process--by which I suppose he means editing, rewriting, proofing.
And I immediately remembered what I hate most about writing: the "non-writing" parts. The submissions, the stamps, the incessant waiting. And for what?
Just to be writing poems should be its own reward, and it has been before. But I dunno--I fear I've been away from it for so long that I won't be able to find that groove again. And all the time, I question how interested I really am in poetry anymore, whether I'm not writing in a niche for a niche audience.
I keep thinking of the Rilke line (is it from Letters to a Young Poet?) which advises the poet to look deep inside his heart and ask whether he must write--and I can't say that I must write, at least not right now. And it bugs the shit out of me, and I seem unwilling to do anything about it--other than bitch about how bad a person I am for neglecting my obligation.
2 comments:
I feel your pain. I published an article last year in a small journal, and now it's all I can do just to blog. I'm supposed to be working on a scholarly book and a non-fiction project, but teaching and life are sapping most of my energy. Oh, for a summer off with pay.
Hang in there, SM. It'll all come back to you, when the time for writing comes.
Thanks for the encouragement, Miss K. And too, I can look at this blog as writing--it all springs from the same place, essentially. It's not a substitute for the "higher" call, maybe, but it's creation.
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