Drunken Owls and Other Delights

It's so hard to make a big decision when you're afraid of the possible outcomes, especially when you have no idea which way it'll end up until it actually happens.

But eventually it'll come down to the moment where you can either take that step, or stay afraid.

And then you'll realize that you can only stay afraid for so long.

A string of Tweets from me from a few days ago:

Writing thoughts 1: Knowing you need to get better = frustrating, but doable.
Writing thoughts 2: Knowing you need to do your best = frustrating, but doable.
Writing thoughts 3: Knowing the difference between "your best" and "THE best" = frustrating and hard as hell.

So why "toppu o nerae" (aim for the top) instead of "ganbatte" (do your best)? In this case, because I think I've been confusing the two for the longest time, at least in terms of my writing, and only recently have I really thought about the difference between the two mindsets I could possibly have in this case.

When I first thought about writing as a lifelong career rather than a hobby or "something to do" oh so many years ago, I of course understood that my first works were going to be far, far from being brilliant works of prose. I understood I'd have to learn the hard way, honing the craft as they say. It took a hell of a lot longer than planned, considering my penchant for being easily distracted and needing to do a lot of growing up by the time I left college, but by the mid-90s I knew I'd finally gotten past that phase and moved forward. I spent most of the late 90s and early 00s learning how to write a story and how to do it well. There were a lot of false starts, trunked ideas and dead ends, but there were a lot of good things--the trilogy, for example.

So here I am, having finally hit the first two writing thoughts I mentioned above.

What about number three, then?

The problem seems to be that, for the longest time, I confused writing MY best work with trying to write THE best work that would put my manuscript on top of everyone else's, spark an agent's interest, and get published. Or more to the point...it wasn't so much confusion as seeing it in the wrong way. I've certainly accepted that I'm not a brilliant writer, so I'm not aiming for bestseller lists. I think most if not all writers think the same way (and musicians, come to think of it), which is probably why they're always a bit surprised and embarrassed when a fan goes all asquee over them if they happen to meet. They did their best, but it's always unexpected to hear someone else quantify it to a much higher level.

Which brings me back to my point--I've been aiming for the top of my game, and I'd like to think I'm much closer to that point than I was in the past. But that's the thing: I've been looking at it as a game, a race: trying to be better than my fellow writers, as if it was a competition. If I don't get the gold medal, I'll never be published. I could pigeonhole this viewpoint as a Good Ol' American Competition, that that's how I was brought up as a child of the 80s and overfed with the mass media of newly minted cable channels and Cold War movies where I MUST HAVE EVERYTHING NOW AND BEFORE EVERYONE ELSE, but that's too easy. It's not as if I was trying to outwrite my friends and favorite authors by 2002 when I wrote the novel I'm currently revising. It's more that I never got around to adjusting that mindset and my emotions just happened to fall into that default from time to time, if that makes sense.

Now that I've come this far, and especially now that I get why the past revisions of A Division of Souls weren't nearly as good as they should be, I think I've finally adjusted that mindset, and I'm seeing the results now.

I stopped trying to write better than everyone else; instead, I'm trying to write better, period.

I think it has to do with the mindset I grew up with...and I'm sure you've all had it. You know, when it's late afternoon or early evening, the sun's already down, it's getting cold, and you have school tomorrow. It's not so much a feeling of dread of having to go to class (or in our case now, work) the next day, as it is a feeling of admitting that the weekend is over.

Living in a city now, at this point in the year I'm always reminded of the years I lived in Boston, going to college at Emerson. Back then, Emerson was situated mostly on Beacon Street in Back Bay (unlike it is now, all at the corner of Boylston and Tremont). For two years I lived at Charlesgate, one of two buildings it used to own at the other end of Back Bay, just outside of Kenmore Square. It was just outside of the downtown area, but still close to everything. Most weekends I stayed in town, hanging out with friends or finishing up homework, but every now and again I would take the commuter train back home.

There were many reasons for these trips back home...visiting family, visiting my then-girlfriend T., scamming some groceries from home, and of course doing laundry for free. I'd head out on late Friday afternoon, sometimes catching the train at North Station, but more often than not catching it at Porter Square. I'd take the Leominster/Fitchburg train out to its terminus (at that point, they still had the coach bus from the Fitchburg stop to Gardner), where one of my parents would pick me up. The ride was often uneventful, and I'd while away the time staring out the window, or if it was dark, writing poetry or in my journal. I'd always have my walkman going, listening to mostly the same things. I pretty much had the same playlist on the way back to Athol: Bob Mould's Workbook, Nine Inch Nails' Pretty Hate Machine, Wire's 154, and The Cure's Pornography...with random other titles and compilations popping in, but those four seemed to be mainstays. The music often had an undertone of frustration.

Going back home was always kind of strange, because at that time I was trying to distance myself from there at the same time. Though I was trying to get away from the small town and the attitudes that came with it, I still had a caring family and a loving girlfriend that I didn't want to ignore. At the same time, however, I was dealing with conflicting feelings about where I was socially and academically in college, and taking the trip home was a good way to distance myself from that for a few days. It was a strange time for me, but I eventually got through it. And any time spent with T. was a happy time.

When Sunday came, I didn't so much dread going back (though T. and I definitely felt the distance between us) as it felt like I was going back to face whatever it was I left in Boston with a better outlook. It was like I took a weekend off from the city, only to come back to it fresh on Sunday night. My parents (or sometimes one of my siblings) would drive me to the Fitchburg or Leominster stop, and I'd settle in for the long trip back. We'd go in mid-afternoon, so I'd be able to watch most of the trip from my window. I did do a bit of last-minute homework there as well, but mostly I just listened to my music and wrote poetry or in my journal. The music on the way back was different: Morrissey's Viva Hate and Bona Drag, Severed Heads' Rotund for Success, Cocteau Twins' Blue Bell Knoll, and The Cure's Disintegration, and of course more compilations. The mood of the music on the way to Boston was a little more melancholy.

Sometimes I'd get off the train at Porter Square and switch to the Red Line (I still have an affinity for the megalong escalator at that stop...), but more often than not I'd take the train all the way into North Station. Now, North Station looks nothing like it does now, for many reasons (the original Garden torn down and the elevated Green Line gone, for starters), but back in the day there was a feeling of excitement when we pulled in. The sky was black but the Boston skyline was all lit up, and after exiting the station I'd cross the street to the Green line stop and wait for the subway car that would take me back to my dorm. Causeway Street always looked busy, even if it wasn't. There was also the continuous hum of the freeway above, also long gone now. It was that electric hum that I could hear that was missing from my small town that made coming back to Boston something to look forward to.

Even as I took the subway over to either the "Auditorium" stop (now Hynes) or the Kenmore Square stop--depending on how much I had to lug back to the dorm--I looked forward to coming back. Even if my roommate wasn't there at the time, I enjoyed being a part of the dorm atmosphere again, back to being a part of something. This of course clashed with my feeling of retaining any connection to people back in Athol, but I was convinced I could have both.

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I'm always reminded of those Sunday nights near the end of the year, especially now. For one thing, the view I have looking out our living room windows is very similar to the view I had looking out my dorm window down Beacon Street. For another thing, there's still that "end of the weekend" feeling...where I'm in no rush to get things prepared for Monday, and all I have left to do is relax for the rest of the evening. The dorm feeling of course isn't there, at least not to a large extent (our apartment building is sort of like one I'd have stayed in at Emerson, but I don't really know anyone else here), but there are reminders that I'm in a large city and not a small town.

The music isn't as prevalent as it was back then, being that I've been doing more reading during my much shorter commute than listening to music, but it's there if I want it, on my Zune. And right now the sun is just coming up by the time we leave for work, but it's still up by the time I leave, due to my earlier hours. The commute is definitely different and a lot more crowded as well.

However, there's still that feeling of escape on Friday and the inevitable return on Monday, and for me that's what I still find calming about weekends...it's being aware of them and enjoying them while they're there, and not dreading that they're so short.

...and I come across this bit:

No one brings ideas to life quite like Gwen Stefani. With awesome personal style, and a true understanding of what it means to be creative, Gwen is a true inspiration for the designer in all of us.

I...um...hmm. *scratches head*

I've had a few writerly things going through my head as of late, and want to shamelessly post about them on the sadly-neglected-as-of-late die_joncswerk...nothing whiny, and nothing really specific about a story in particular...just thoughts about writing and the writing field and where my places is within it.

At the moment though, I have very little time to work on it, so perhaps this weekend I'll dust off the other LJ and post there. I'll post here as a warning, though. And again, for those of you newer flist peoples that had no idea I lead the life of mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent have a second, writing-only LJ, let me know and I'll add you onto the friends list, as I do often lock the posts there to ensure copyright goodness. :)