Writing Against the Grain
The problem for a writer–or any artist, for that matter–is that life prefers to be left alone. The actual days and events of our lives do not appreciate being fiddled with, manipulated, re-expressed or re-imagined. The proof of this is in how difficult it is to make art. To be a writer requires energies that are psychic, spiritual, and physical--in short, all your powers brought to bear on an idea, a dream, a vision that you set out to make real. The rest of the world is working against you, with time as the biggest obstacle. Where are we to get enough of it to attend to our inner life, when our outer lives ("real" life) are so demanding?
I have been pressing to finish the the third of a three-book series for FSG. The current novel was due at the end of November, but my wife, a fit woman in her fifties, needed major surgery (bone and joint, after a bad bicycling accident some years ago) on December 3. "Family first" has always been my position on art versus life, so that meant clearing the decks for a couple of weeks of care-giving. My editor was very understanding, and gave me an extension until the end of January.
My wife's surgery, however, was unsuccessful. Since Dec 3 her hip dislocated twice, requiring, the second time, an emergency return trip (500 miles all told) to St. Paul and more surgery (I'm writing this from her hospital room). Just before her last trip to the ER, I was within 2-3 days and one good chapter of finishing my book. ...
You might, dear reader, think I'm whining here; I hope it doesn't sound that way, because I think I can still wrap up the ending with some long-nighters in the next few days. My larger point here is that "Life happens", and when it does, Art takes a back seat.
(I am happy to report that my wife is doing well, I've taken true pleasure in helping her get through this, and we're headed home in the next couple of days.)
Thank you for your post. I appreciate it. Art does take a backseat.
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