the right write

For a very long time, when I was in college and into my twenties and thirties, I thought My Destiny was to be a novelist. I like to write, and I love to read novels, and I was convinced that meant that I should be a novelist.

But two things happened to change that. One was that I discovered that I hated writing fiction. I sit down to write a blog post with a fair amount of enjoyment, but writing fiction never, ever felt like anything other than having my fingernails pulled out one by one, or whatever other form of medieval torture you want to imagine here.

The other thing that happened was that I read two or three novels that were the kind of thing that I dreamed of writing, but were far better than anything I had ever managed to produce. I don't even remember what they were at this late date, but I remember several times putting a novel aside with a sigh of satisfaction/admiration/envy and thinking, No one needs me to do this because other people are already doing it better than I ever could. Who needs another coming of age novel by a middle class straight white woman who loves to read?

Then I had kids, and writing became something I only did in emails and book reviews and contributions to the comments of various forums. It wasn't until our younger child was in elementary school that I started writing again. At that point, I was still trying to write a novel, but I never made it past thirty or forty thousand words during National Novel Writing Month, and the rest of the year, all I felt was relief that I wasn't trying to write a novel. 

I started a blog in 2003 (several iterations back from the one you're reading now), and for a long time, that was enough to keep me happy, because whatever else I can or can't do, I do love to write. 

But I sometimes wish I'd had the grit and determination to actually commit to a big, publishable writing project, whether fiction or non, and stick with it to the end. I tried again last summer, but I don't think I ever made it past about 5,000 words. 

It's hard to know exactly how to interpret this. Our culture, especially the writing subculture, is so full of easy wisdom that assures you that you can do whatever you want to do, that all you need to succeed is the previously mentioned grit and determination, all you have to do is believe in yourself and keep trying and you'll succeed.

Seriously, at least three times in the past year I've seen tearfully joyful Instagram posts from first-time authors, sobbing, I've been dreaming of this since I was ten! All of you out there who are dreaming of publishing your first book, I'm proof that you can do it! Just keep writing! And yet, not everyone gets published. Not everyone has the writing chops, or the of-the-moment thing to say, or the built-in audience from podcasting or blogging or social media followers. 

I know that sounds like sour grapes, and you're absolutely right, it is. But my point isn't to whine (even though I am), but to state the obvious dilemma: is it really just not "meant to be"? should I stop even thinking about trying to write a book-length project? or have I not tried hard enough, persevered long enough, worked my ass off long enough?

There were another three paragraphs along these lines, which I have no deleted, because they were boring. You get the message. What the hell am I doing here.

I'm working my way through the half-written posts in my Drafts folder. Who knows what will be next. Have a great weekend.