The angry writer
This may sound a bit silly, but lately I find myself feeling angry whenever I can't work on my novel. Whether it's because I have to do "real" work instead of the necessary and important work of writing my novel, or because I am running errands and I'm physically away from the computer, I start to feel incredibly resentful of the various obstacles keeping me from my writing.
The last time I felt this way I was living in New York City, working a shitty minimum-wage job with 2 hours of unpaid overtime every day (for which I was never compensated), an hour-long commute each way, and not a single friend in my area code. I read a lot of books from the library, grabbed lunches I could eat while walking, and trekked from work to Central Park during every lunch break I had (weather permitting). I walked quickly, determined to hit the park and at least one museum (the Guggenheim or the Met) before heading back to my post.
I was almost always angry, and walking swiftly down the orderly, gridded streets of the Upper East Side was the only thing that ever seemed to help me feel any better.
Why so much anger? I used to respond, "If you're not angry, then you're just stupid or you don't care," quoting Ani DiFranco. Now I think it was actually a much more selfish anger: I was frustrated by my inability to work on the projects I cared about.
I was not often able to write while I was at work (as the receptionist at a busy firm, the phone was constantly ringing, and when I got stuck taking messages for the most boorish of the partners, it was even worse), and after 10 hours on the job (plus 2 hours of commuting time), I was often too exhausted to write when I got home. It seemed my life was little more than waking up very early, chasing down buses, riding subway trains, answering phones for ungrateful bastards, eating unsatisfying breakfasts, lunches and dinners, going to bed as early as possible to try to catch up on my ever-increasing sleep deficit, and waking up tired—only to do it all over again. A horribly meaningless existence, really, brightened only by the books I was reading, the music playing in my headphones, the emails I received from my then-boyfriend, and whatever time I could eke out for my writing.
I did my best to devote my weekends exclusively to my writing, relishing the two free days I had from my miserable routine, but sometimes I could not make the words come. Sometimes, all I could do was go for a walk, listening to some angry or depressing music (Ani DiFranco, Tool, Garbage), and self-loathe.
I am, still, that angry writer. When I don't have time to play with words, for whatever reason, I start to get very bent out of shape very quickly. God help the fool who gets in my way!
Obviously, writing is one of my daily requirements, a part of my life like taking vitamins, drinking coffee or checking my email. When I cannot get my writing time in, I feel unsettled. I don't feel entirely whole, entirely there. And when I can't get back to my novel, an enormous task that people are constantly asking after, I feel even worse. I feel almost as if I am a failure at life, that nothing I ever do will amount to anything.
And that makes me incredibly angry.
So, if you've ever wondered what fuels a writer, know this: it's not happy thoughts, and it's not the desire to succeed. It's anger, stemming from an enormous fear of failure. Sometimes it's even blinding rage. And the best thing you can do to support an angry writer?
KEEP OUT OF THE WAY AND BRING REFILLS ON ALL BEVERAGES. (Please and thank you.)
