Christy Writes: On being “just” a writer (Or “What do you DO all day?”)

I was having a conversation with a friend recently who said I’m lucky to be able to stay home and just write all day, instead of going to a job.

Uh…

I do get the underlying meaning behind his words. He sees my writing as fun, as a regular practice of my chosen art medium. And it is, I certainly can’t argue with that, but I’m not sure why people often have a hard time seeing art as a profession. I do have a couple of steady gigs as a journalist since, true, no one knocks on my door every Friday and hands me a paycheck for the week I spent working on my novel. If I could figure out how to make that happen, especially if I could get them to pick up a growler of my favorite beer on the way, my life would be complete.

As it is, though, writing is my job. It’s my career. It’s my life. To me, saying “Oh how nice for you, getting to write all day!” is tantamount to saying “Oh look, you’re breathing. How fun!” I could no sooner give up writing and spend my days in a cubicle or a conference room than I could give up that sweet, sweet oxygen.

I suppose the reason it startles me when someone considers my writing little more than a hobby is that I treat it like a job. I get up early so I have time to meditate, journal, and exercise before my work day starts. Then I shower, I get dressed, and when I walk into my writing room, I’m at work. I have my little routines I go through – PG Tips tea in my special mug, a scented candle to the top left of my desk, a notepad and two mechanical pencils stacked neatly to the right, classical music on the mp3 player. As I’m going through all the motions, I’m preparing myself mentally for work.

Then I write.

So is it work?

I write and I write, I edit, I write some more, I admit to myself that a whole section isn’t working and throw it out (heeding Faulkner’s painful advice to “kill your darlings”), mourn over my darlings, write some more, shift paragraphs around, write, think, daydream, write, edit, curse under my breath, write, write, write, rub my eyes, sigh loudly, write, find a new character waiting on the sidelines and bring him into the story, laugh over a particularly good paragraph, give myself a happy little squeeze, write, write, write, start to really like a character, realize something I wrote in chapter 20 now means something in chapter 1 makes no sense, go back and change one of them, write, start to really hate a character, write, write, and write some more.

And at the end of my writing day, I read back over what I’ve written and I ask myself the hardest question of all: Is it good? Is it truly and lastingly good? Did I dig deep and use every beautiful scrap of language available to me? Did I strive to do the best writing I’ve ever done? Sometimes the answer is yes. Other times, I tell myself to push harder tomorrow.

The novel I’m writing now is unlike anything I’ve ever written. I’m going well beyond the limits of my comfort, trying to see how far I can go. It’s exhilarating and exhausting. It’s also an important, even critical, part of my growth as a writer. When I’m not writing, I’m reading some of the best writers of all time. From them, I’m learning what’s possible. I’m following them down paths I never braved before. With them around me, I’m always reaching higher, experimenting, learning, trying, growing. You can keep your co-workers – I’ve got John Updike and Saul Bellow breathing down my neck here.

It’s intimidating, I’ll admit. Taking what I’ve learned and pouring it into my own writing makes me feel like a kid, standing on my tiptoes beneath the penciled lines of the height chart on the kitchen wall, putting my hand on top of my head and stepping out from under it, trying to see how much I’ve grown and how long until I’ve caught up with the big kids. The amazing part to me is knowing that the big kids have their own hands on top of their heads, looking to see how close they are to the still bigger kids. I revere Jonathan Franzen. Jonathan Franzen reveres Philip Roth. And that, right there, is what makes literature a living, breathing, lasting art form.

When I told my friend, from beneath slightly ruffled feathers, that writing is my job, thank you very much, I realize now I didn’t say enough. Writing is my job, but yes, I am lucky I get to stay home and do it all day. In fact, I’m the luckiest.

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