Thursday, January 29, 2015

Once More unto the Breach

About a year ago, I thought I had finally gotten used to the idea that I was a short story writer, and that the titanic form of writing categorized as ‘the novel’ was simply beyond my grasp. I was learning to be ok with that. After all, some of my favorite writers focus on short stories for the majority of their work. It was the collection I, Robot by celebrated author and biochemist Isaac Asimov that first taught me a love of science fiction. The tales of James Herriot, lovingly reduced into a book for children, are my first memories of being read to by my mother (back when I still ‘fit’).

And yet, there was a part of me that ached at the idea that writing a novel was something I just didn't feel capable of doing. There isn't anything about novels that make them better than short stories (and vice versa). But my last attempt at constructing one had failed miserably, weighed down by the fact that my writing style was going through such dramatic growth spurts that I literally could not sustain a single story for that long. Demoralized, I entered into a period of artistic depression, convinced that my muses had abandoned me.


Yeah, those Muses? Forget them. My muses are made of cynicism and shadow and wind in the trees. They stare at the sky and wonder. They gulp down singularities and astronomical units and theoretical physics and are rendered speechless with awe. And for years – basically the entirety of my higher education – I locked them away behind a wall of impossible expectations and feelings of inadequacy.

Why on earth would a writer do that, you ask? Well the answer is painfully simple: I had no clue that I was doing it. Maybe a psychologist could answer the reason behind why I started to wind myself up and lose faith in my own creativity. I have a feeling that it had something to do with the fact that I found myself beginning to encounter other writers – and they were all better than me! (Not really, but that’s one of the easiest lies you can tell yourself as a teenager). But the long and short of it is that I rendered myself speechless, not with awe, but with fear. Fear that I wouldn't be good enough. Fear that I just didn't have a gift for writing. Fear that it was impossible to generate a unique idea, faced with all that had come before me.

I struggled through. I started writing poetry just to practice getting words on the page. Most of it was terrible. I wrote blurbs and bios and barely discernible plot lines. None of them were particularly satisfying. Occasionally I turned out a short story or a scene that I actually liked. Once or twice I wrote a complete piece that other people liked! And I began to be comfortable with my place in the writing world: adequate, but likely never the kind to seek publication.

And then, in November of 2014, Christopher Nolan put out a movie called Interstellar.

This blog post is not about Interstellar. What this blog post is about is the extreme reaction I had to Interstellar. I will never forget riding in the back seat of my brother-in-law’s car after seeing the midnight showing, face glued to the window as I looked up at the few stars you can see in Atlanta and cried.

Interstellar has a lot of sad moments in it, but I was not weeping out of sympathy for the characters (I did that in the theater). I was crying because I was so overwhelmed with something I had been starving for without even knowing it. I felt a spark of remembrance of what I had known when I first started writing. I felt, to push the envelope a little, incandescent.   

I had been halfheartedly chipping away at the walls around my creative spirit for years, spraying graffiti slogans and whispering to the muses on the other side through small cracks. In one glorious blow, Interstellar came in and said “Mr. Nolan, tear down this wall!” It took my muses a few weeks to discover their newfound freedom, in which time I encouraged them by seeing Interstellar four times. But let me tell you, they have since figured it out and are running rampant.

It has been easily five years since I really considered writing a novel. Five years since I had an idea that I felt needed that kind of space to be fully realized. Five years since I stumbled upon characters and settings so vivid that I was convinced they would stand the test of time.

For the past few weeks I have been preparing the workspace I will need to create my latest foray into the written word, my first novel in five years.  And even though I am excited and overwhelmed and full of joy, I am also taking my time. I am doing something I didn't really think myself capable of: I am resisting the pressure of personal expectations.

And, for the sake of posterity, I will be cataloguing my entire experience here. I will celebrate my victories and discuss my failures. I will share resources that I find interesting or encouraging (sneak previews! Will you be able to guess what the book is about?). And, overall, I will do my utmost just to enjoy the journey, regardless of the outcome.

Because whether or not this book is ever finished, it will serve as a turning point in my writing career that I will never forget. It will be the bridge connecting the gap between the writing of my youth and the writing of my adulthood. And I can’t wait to see what’s on the other side!

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