Writing (in the) Happy Middles
By Guest | July 8, 2016 |
by Gerard Van der Leun from Flickr’s CC
Please welcome back guest H.M. (Heather) Bouwman, author of A Crack in the Sea (forthcoming in January 2017) and The Remarkable & Very True Story of Lucy & Snowcap (2008). Heather lives with her two kids in St. Paul, Minnesota, where she teaches at the University of St. Thomas and writes novels for middle-grade child readers. She is a martial artist, a homeschooling mom, a reader-aloud of books, and a baker of cakes. In her free time, she does not clean house or care for her lawn. Her neighbors love her: she makes them look good. Connect with Heather on Facebook and on Twitter.
Writing (in the) Happy Middles
I tell my creative writing students—I got this from somewhere, but I no longer remember where—that the difference between a comedy and a tragedy is in the last ten minutes of the movie or the final tenth or so of the story. A comedy is made, in other words, by its ending. Middles aren’t happy.
But what if they’re all we ever have? The story of a writing career isn’t necessarily one with either a happy ending or a tragic one. For most of us, the writing life is a story without an arc—or at least without an arc that is discernable from our perspective as we slog away in the trenches.
I write this essay as someone who spent long years (between book one and book two) in the arid desert, my writing receiving rejection after rejection. And I write this essay now as someone who finally did get a second book contract (and a third) with an amazing editor, at a wonderful publisher. Things are rosy. But that’s not the writing life. And this essay isn’t a story about trudging to reach the bright horizon.
About a year ago (before the sale of book two), I started a once-in-a-while journal about my writing path, taking stock of how things were going and checking my emotional temperature. I won’t quote from the journal here: I’m pretty sure the actual words are of no use to anyone but me, mainly because they don’t go anywhere. There is no trajectory. Every entry—some of them spaced months and months apart—is essentially the same: publishing is currently stinking; this is a low point in my publishing career; but I love writing.
Every. Entry.
I don’t think it’s healthy to think of failure (failure to write a draft at the level we’d hoped for; failure to nab an agent or a publisher; failure to get the reviews or sales that we wanted) as simply a “conflict” on the way to a happy or—if we’re unlucky—tragic ending. When I hear that Marlon James, recent winner of the Man Booker Prize and an amazing writer, was turned down 78 times on his first manuscript and almost gave up writing, I don’t think it’s fair to talk as if he embodies a story about how, if you just hang in there and keep plugging away, you’ll achieve your dreams and write and publish something amazing. Some people won’t. And hanging in there won’t make it happen.
There has to be some other way to think of the story of the writing life.
A good writer friend and I have talked at great length about the guiding myths in our lives. By this, we don’t mean the myths or stories that we live by, the ones that are psychologically or spiritually important to us, but the ones that seem to be thrust upon us, time and again. (For me, that story is the fairy tale of the seven swan brothers—but that’s a different blog post.) My writer friend’s guiding story is the tale of Sisyphus, who pushes his rock up the hill again and again, only to see it roll back down. My friend feels, often, that the work she does in one novel needs to be done over again in the next, that she’s constantly relearning the same writing and publishing lessons, that each book is a new hill to push a rock up.
One day she said, “How can I move past Sisyphus to something that has a happy ending?” And in a rare moment of clarity (which I can achieve much quicker with other people’s lives than my own), I said, “Why do you need to move past it? Maybe instead you need to learn to enjoy pushing rocks up hills.”
My friend and I both sat on our ends of the phone line, the silence extending for a brief moment all the way from Minnesota to California and back. What I said so flippantly suddenly made sense of something in our lives: writing is a Sisyphean career. There may be no publication waiting at the end, no fans, no large readership or big awards. You may in fact be writing only for yourself and your Wilson ball and your doting grandmother. There is no happy or tragic ending to this story—because there is no ending. A writer writes, pushing the rock up the hill over and over again, because a writer has managed to find some joy in the pushing of rocks, not because she harbors the hope that the rock-pushing will be over someday and Zeus will put a smiley face on her sticker chart and let her move on.
Move on to what? The writing life is a story with no arc.
What seems to be the guiding myth of your writing life?
Many thanks to today’s guest.
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Hey Heather, interesting questions. I imagine that for the non-writers in my life, my writing story seems to be one with no arc. Over the holiday weekend I saw a dozen or so people that I only see a couple of times a year, and many are nice enough to ask me how “the writing thing” is going. Over the years I’ve gone through various phases of sharing, starting with hiding my writing, to reluctant admission, to some conversation, and now I’m back to brushing past it and asking a question about them. I suppose it’s because when I did speak of it, they saw my hopes for it. And now, if I continue to speak of it, no matter what progress I know I’ve made, if it’s not publication or sales related, they read it as unrealized hopes, and are compelled to pity.
I tell the “outsiders” story, because you ask: “Move on to what?” And my answer is more of an “insiders” story (insiders meaning mostly me, but also my wife and a few close writing friends and mentors), for the moment, anyway. I can clearly see my arc, and it’s about more than acquiring skill as an artist. It’s about knowing myself better, and gaining insight which improves my outlook. And in a world that seems to get a little crazier every day, the insight gives me a little more empathy, a little more gratitude. It makes me a little less reactive, a little more rational, and just a little less fearful.
Hence, the exploration of my artist’s journey gives me hope. Hope that goes beyond getting an agent or a pub deal, or selling books. It’s a hope that only grows in the aspiration of sharing it through story. Who knows? If I can move on to sharing, maybe it’ll spread.
Maybe that’s my myth, but I remain hopeful.
Yes, Vaughn, how smart! Thank you. The writer’s arc is certainly one of inner growth (at least, one hopes so!), so maybe it’s more fair to say that the publication story (the external plot, we might say) is the one without a necessary arc.
This is beautiful, Vaughn. How wonderful, to find such self reflection. Kudos, my friend.
Dee
My favorite guiding myth is that you must write every day. Every. Single. Day. Otherwise, you’ll die lonely, unpublished, and in a semi-private hospital room.
Apparently, there are no Seventh Day Adventists among published writers (I am not, but I do like my Sundays off).
When we create rules like this, the love of writing becomes labor. True, there is plenty of labor a comin’, but why stack on yet another burden? It’s bad enough that we must post a blog thrice weekly less we die lonely, unpublished, and in a semi-private hospital room.
If I can claim a driving force, I’ll select two (because I’m a writer and terrible and math…untrue, I’m an engineer and excellent at math, but nobody can relate to that). But I’ll still claim two driving forces:
1. God. Though not an SDA, I’m still a Christian who believes God endows us with gifts, and to shun that gift borders on rebellion. I saw how that worked out for Satan. Therefore, I’ll keep practicing the one and only gift I have (I’m really a lousy engineer).
2. My wife. An avid reader, she’s always loved that I want to write. Last night, she was reading my middle-grade historical (Scorpion Summer) in bed next to me and laughed a few times. I will assume that what she was reading was intended to be funny. Though it could have been my spelling errors. No, let’s stay positive. If she turns out to be my one and only reader of Scorpion Summer, and she likes it, then I will die happy.
With friends. Still unpublished. But in a very nice private room with surround sound and unlimited ice-cream.
Thanks for the post. Keep pushing.
Thank you, Ron! Let’s both keep pushing forward.
“My favorite guiding myth is that you must write every day. Every. Single. Day. Otherwise, you’ll die lonely, unpublished, and in a semi-private hospital room . . . When we create rules like this, the love of writing becomes labor. True, there is plenty of labor a comin’, but why stack on yet another burden? It’s bad enough that we must post a blog thrice weekly less we die lonely, unpublished, and in a semi-private hospital room.”
Thank you Ron! I needed this today. I need this most days.
God bless you, your wife and your love of writing. :-)
All so true.
Thank you so much.
We all are aware that writing can be any or all of the following -Rewarding–painful–disappointing— tedious—frustrating— joyous—and on and on—-
It requires self discipline–imagination–perseverance and a little talent.
My final word—but all so necessary as part of the creative process for success in our chosen field.
We are after all not just mere mortals—we are writers—-by choice.
“…each book is a new hill to push a rock up…there is no ending.”
I’d put it this way: Every book is a new challenge. The job each time is not to use old solutions, but to devise new ones.
And I’d go further: A committed writer not only accepts the challenge of a new book but adds to it. Great writers dare themselves. They risk.
Writing novels, to me, is like sledding: a wild and joyous careen down a snowy hillside. Between books one hauls the sled back up the hill. The reward is getting to whoosh down the hill again, whooping.
Roll a rock uphill, if that’s how it feels to you. It’s understandable during the years of rejection. Speaking for me, I focus on the ride downhill. It’s a blast. Plus, you get to do it over and over.
Congrats on your new contracts! And thanks for this post.
“…each book is a new hill to push a rock up…there is no ending.”
I’d put it this way: Every book is a new challenge. The job each time is not to use old solutions, but to devise new ones.
And I’d go further: A committed writer not only accepts the challenge of a new book but adds to it. Great writers dare themselves. They risk.
Writing novels, to me, is like sledding: a wild and joyous careen down a snowy hillside. Between books one hauls the sled back up the hill. The reward is getting to whoosh down the hill again, whooping.
Roll a rock uphill, if that’s how it feels to you. It’s understandable during the years of rejection. Speaking for me, I focus on the ride downhill. It’s a blast. Plus, you get to do it over and over.
Congrats on your new contracts! And thanks for this post.
I love the sledding image, Benjamin.
This post really resonated with me. Writing often does feel like pushing that rock uphill over and over, but there is something about it that makes me keep doing it! Thanks for sharing this.
Linda, yes! it sounds like you enjoy pushing the rock. :) That was part of the point I was trying to make–that the hard work of rock-pushing can also be enjoyable. I’m glad it resonated with you.
Writing. Spending hours and years locked in a room with the voices from your dreams… all to earn the right to stay in a room with the voices from your dreams.
What else could you want?
That doesn’t sound too bad to me! :)
Heather, I absolutely love this, “A writer writes, pushing the rock up the hill over and over again, because a writer has managed to find some joy in the pushing of rocks, not because she harbors the hope that the rock-pushing will be over someday and Zeus will put a smiley face on her sticker chart and let her move on.”
Yes. Yes. Yes.
That said, upon considering your question, “What seems to be the guiding myth of your writing life?” I’m forced to ponder my current situation.
I’m a known supporter of the LOVE WHAT YOU DO mindset. But lately, this is my myth. Life has taken over and made it next to impossible to write. It’s only temporary, I know, but I feel like a liar claiming to love the thrill of the push. The rocks are sitting at the bottom of the hill, alone and weary, and I’ve not the energy to get my ass up the hill.
Still, you speak true words, and I will endure. Thank you for that.
Dee Willson
Author of A Keeper’s Truth and GOT
Dee, I’m sorry it’s hard right now! There are definitely seasons to writing, and your spring will come again.
Great post! And yes at times writing does feel Sisyphean, but like your friend, I too realized when you posed your question, that I enjoy pushing rocks uphill, that it is a challenge and there is joy in the discovery that I can push a rock uphill. Years ago, I didn’t go to med school because I was afraid — afraid of debt, afraid of failure — and I still regret it because I was called to do this. I became a research scientist instead. But when children arrived into our lives, I quit working to raise them. I’ve never regretted it. A childhood dream of writing surfaced. It too, is a calling, and this time I took the plunge and the net appeared. I love this writing life and I suspect I’ll die writing … and in heaven I might write unimaginably beautiful stories.
A few years ago, I read JPII’s letter to Artists and I realized why some regrets run so deep; it’s because we failed to say yes to the call. He says, ““Those who perceive in themselves… the artistic vocation as poet, writer, sculptor, painter, musician, and actor feel at the same time an obligation not to waste this talent but to develop it, in order to put it to service of their neighbour and the humanity as a whole.”
“…I took the plunge, and the net appeared.” I love this, Vijaya, more than I can say.
Pushing a rock. Writing and writing and writing. Both build muscle.
Muscle has a way of coming in handy, especially when you need it but least expect it. The carton that needs lifting, or words appearing out of the air and settling themselves on the page right where they belong.
I love that idea of building muscle, Anna. Regular writing is like regular working out–building muscle and endurance for when you need it.
H.M.–Under the conditions you present–worldly failure, obscurity, anonymity, etc–only one serious reason can explain a writer continuing to write: the law of inertia.
People assume this law refers to something that can’t move or be moved. No, the law of inertia also refers to bodies in motion tending to stay in motion. Once the inclination to write has taken hold and tunneled its way in (something like a tape worm), the writer must learn to live with it. It must be watered and fed, nurtured, cursed and fawned over. Seeking out virtues or blessings that come from this condition may help, but in the end, like it or not, writing has become the beast that must be fed.
I’m not sure how to respond, Barry–you make writing sound so unpleasant! :). (Or maybe your point is that *I* made it sound unpleasant–though that actually wasn’t what I intended. My point was that I write because I love writing, not because there’s an external reward of some kind.)
I needed this post today, Heather. Thank you.
Thank you, Sarah! I’m glad you liked it.
Thank you, Heather!
We have to learn to love the process. That is true with most of life, because, as you said, not everyone who works hard and does “everything” right will get the prize at the end. But if we love the process, love the journey, then the ending is still a good one.
Amen, Pearl.
Heather, I woke up world-weary after yet more horrific news in our country. But, while meditating, had the perfect final sentence of the collaborative novel I’m close to finishing fall into my head. Rock-pushing indeed, but sometimes the rocks (this one a lovely shade of lapis lazuli) glow, so the pushing is the pleasure.
Brightly colored stones! I love it, Tom.
Hi, Heather:
I’m sitting in my room at the Grand Hyatt in New York, ostensibly attending ThrillerFest, but secretly getting ready to write my post for next Tuesday. I had one idea in mind, and talked it over with Don Maass yesterday, only to come across your lovely post today, and it’s given me an idea that I intend to meld with some recent thoughts Don has posted here. I won’t spoil it by saying any more, except to say thanks for the inspiration.
As for guiding myths, as much as I obviously see the merit of the Sisyphean story, I’ll add a twist and choose instead Theseus, Ariadne, and the Minotaur. Yes, I know the story ends badly, and Theseus proves himself a right cad, but I prefer to stop when, due to the loving Ariadne’s assistance, Theseus escapes the interminable meaningless journey the labyrinth represents — or the cruel death waiting at the hands of the Minotaur. In other words, I recognize the possibility of cruelty and meaninglessness at every turn, but love provides an escape.
Lovely post. Thank you.
David, I can’t wait to read your post.
This was really great! Thanks for sharing!
You’re welcome! Glad the post was useful to you.
My myth…
I’ll be happy when I finish my book. I’ll be happy when I find a publisher. I’ll be happy when the book is published. I’ll be happy when I build an author career.
What I failed to realize is that I am happy as I accomplish all these things.
And also…
After I finished the book, I kept writing. After I found a publisher, I kept writing. After the book was published, I kept writing. While I continue to build my author career, I keep writing.
The simple truth I hold on to…
Writing makes me happy.
Me, too, Leanne!
I spent 25 years employed as a government investigator. I enjoyed the investigative part…kinda like putting together a puzzle. And I enjoyed feeling I was bringing some people to justice that needed it. And being a practical person, my employment enabled me to pay the bills and raise my son. But, truthfully, the only thing I have EVER wanted to do is write. And now that I have written the first draft of my novel and am in the middle of revisions, I enjoy getting to play with words every day. I still hope for the agent/contract/publisher ending for this book. But if not, I have ideas for two other novels waiting in the wings…and I’ll jump on the roller coaster for each and enjoy the thrill of the ride.
The roller coaster! Reminds me of Benjamin’s sledding image (near the top of the comments). Lovely.
Thank you for this, Heather. For me, a different analogy is true — the reward is not so much in reaching the destination but in making the journey. Yes, I dream of publication, but meanwhile, book after book, I gain much pleasure from the writing. Even when the words sometimes don’t come easily, it doesn’t seem like an uphill effort at all. :)
I hope it’s clear that what I’m trying to say is that I do enjoy the uphill climb. It’s just that I do see the writing life overall as work, fun work for sure sometimes, but work nonetheless. But I think whatever analogy keeps us going is the right one, and yours may be different from mine. :)
There’s no career that isn’t Sisyphean in some way. Imagine a Kindergarten teacher wailing in despair because she taught a class of kids for a whole year, but nobody paid her a billion dollars or gave her a national award for it, so now she has to start all over with a new batch of five-year-olds. Isn’t that so unfair?
We writers are quite spoiled, thinking it’s so depressing that we have to keep working to earn more money. Everyone else in the world is like, “Yeah, that’s life.” You wake up, you roll the rock. Over time you get better at rolling the rock. Eventually you learn to stop begrudging the rock. You let the rock go and enjoy the view of the sunset before taking a leisurely stroll down to start again.
Yes. As a teacher myself in my paying-the-bills life (though a college professor rather than a kindergarten teacher), I can agree fully with that sentiment.
I just read this post after a weekend without my computer, during which I was “forced” to write out everything in longhand. I started a new short story and actually finished the first draft in those two days, and enjoyed it more than I would have imagined. Reading this post, I think I know why: The slow, deliberate action of of writing and rewriting, crossing out lines, scribbling in the margins, encouraged me to embrace my inner Sisyphus. The old boy was pretty good company. I’ll have to have him back more often. Thanks for the insight.
This is the best graphic for authors of book-length manuscripts. Period.