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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