If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware off, no shortcut.
– Stephen King, On Writing
Stephen King is right. I can no longer deny the harsh reality that if I want to write then I have to…. well….write.
I’ve got the reading thing down. I think my commitment to reading is sufficiently compulsive and obsessive.
I had dinner with a good friend a few nights ago and we spent a lot of time talking about my consulting work. At the end of a long discussion about some of my projects she asked me how I was going to make time for writing now that I was clearly so busy with the challenge of running my own business. She’s one of those friends who isn’t afraid to ask you questions that will make you uncomfortable because they force you to deal with something you’ve been avoiding. You know the type. The ones who remember all the good intentions you set for yourself and are not afraid to remind you about them when said intentions become lost – buried by the other stuff of life. Sometimes you wish they didn’t have such good memories, but really you’re incredibly grateful that they do.
One of the reasons I stopped working full-time was so that I could finally make time to explore my writing. To really sit with this newly discovered passion. Finally I’d be able to give in to the irresistible pull I feel to put myself down on paper.
It hasn’t happened the way I imagined. The past few months have been consumed by finding a place to live,settling into the new place and starting a new business.
My technology consulting work has taken on a life of its own, and projects are coming at me fast and furious. I’ve been spending all my time trying to figure out how to efficiently run a business, and my days are already filled with meetings, preparing proposals and estimates, invoicing and more. I feel as pressed for time as I did when I had a regular job!
I’m realizing that it may have been naive to think that just because I was self-employed, by default I would have lots of free time for writing .
If it wasn’t for my monthly writing group, my writing would be limited to the occasional day when I manage to write morning pages. Once in a while they end up on paper, but more often than not, they are written in my head. Sometimes in the early hours, I am awakened by passages being written in my head. Am I becoming a vessel for the writing? I often hear writers and painters describe their creative process this way. If so, great. I’ve written some good stuff. Pity its not written any place where I can read it. I can only comfort myself with the thought that if it came to me once perhaps it will come again at a moment when I can write it down.
I wonder if Stephen King counts writing in your head as writing? My guess would be no…but then again, who knows.
I know what I need to do to be a writer. Write.
So this is my challenge – to make the time and space to write.
Clearly it will require a concerted effort and probably a great deal of sacrifice.
I’ll have to become as compulsive and obsessive about the writing as I am about the reading.
I know it can be done. Take this post for example. I’m writing at it at 2am. Earlier this evening, I fell asleep on the couch watching TV. I woke up around 1:30am, and began to make the half-awakened stumble towards to my bed. As I did so however, I glanced at my computer. Something told me to sit down and write about what’s been on my mind for the past few days. So here I am.
I have an 8:30am meeting with a new client, and conventional wisdom tells me that being up writing at 2am is probably not wise. By the time I lay my head down, my mind will probably be too stimulated for me to fall asleep immediately. I’ll probably end up reading in an attempt to lull myself to sleep – which most likely won’t work, and I’ll read for another couple of hours. My guess is that I’ll end up snatching only a few hours of sleep.
I did say something about sacrifice didn’t I?
What’s funny is that this doesn’t feel like a sacrifice. Sitting at my desk in the spacious stillness of early, early morning when it feels like I am the only person in the world who is awake. It’s blissfully quiet except for the gentle tap of my fingers on the keyboard, the hiss and splutter of the heat forcing its way out of the radiator and the occasional hum of a car passing on the street.
This feels like a gift.
