Or writing morning and half an afternoon, to be more precise. It's come to a natural end. My babysitter is about to leave, and I finished working on the story, so it's blah blah blog time. This story is three years old. Amazing, but I wrote it the fall after F was born, and have tinkered with it unsuccessfully ever since. Think I solved the major problems today. This is a reminder of how incredibly patient the writing life requires one to be. It has to be, far and away, the toughest lesson to learn and to keep in mind when struggling to "be" a writer. Virtually nothing is immediate. That's why writing this blog feels like cheating, somehow, way too easy.
I still put myself in quotation marks when it comes to the "writer" facet of my identity. I'm not sure what qualifies one, exactly, to claim to be a writer. Yah, I write things. I make things up and write them down. I've published a little bit, here and there, though not regularly. Does publishing make one a writer? Readers? Or can it be a pure pursuit of craft? Stephen Harper would likely see that as sinfully futile, pursuing something with absolutely no monetary or worldly value; but I can't just throw blame on our prime minister, 'cause I feel that way sometimes too. Sometimes I wonder--if I were to write just one truly wonderful story in my entire lifetime of writing, would that satisfy me? Because, quite honestly, even one truly wonderful story would be a lot of ask for. But I'm not sure. Maybe being satisfied is the opposite of what I'm pursuing. Maybe satisfaction would kill the desire to try.
I spill words. I want to. They tumble out of me. I love putting them on the page and moving them around, playing with syntax, tense; it feels like play. The act of writing itself can occasionally be frustrating, but mostly, almost always, it's happy time. I am taken out of myself. So maybe the end result is immaterial? Could that be true? I'm thinking in comforting cliches about the journey versus the destination.
But truthfully, that destination matters to me, too. Yes, I do want to write really wonderful stories. It's almost terrifying to admit, and feels both arrogant and ridiculous all at once. Gives me the same feeling as those dreams where I'm wandering around naked (somewhere like a mall or downtown), not noticing until far too late.
Okay, wake up Carrie! Must, must, must get back into myself--and in time to organize for the school run. Tonight we're also going to walk to the Rec Centre to get an idea how long this will take, because swim lessons start next Friday after school. After the Rec Centre run, I need to get to Nina's buying club. And then make a fine plain supper out of frozen hamburger (Nina's), leftover fresh tomato sauce (CSA), and ww macaronis (leftover from last night's supper; not local).
Labels: short stories, supper, writing, writing day