writing

Mixing metaphors instead of cocktails, or why I’ll never write The Great Novel

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I don’t know how to write a book. I’ve read thousands of them and some were quite good, I just don’t know how to write one.

I make poems instead. So many that they’ve become a long string of ribbons tied to my arms and legs and waist to flutter behind me all the way into the needle point of the horizon line, all the way back to my first fat number two pencil. Making poems is the only weapon I ever had against growing up or growing old.

It wasn’t much of a weapon, though, because I’ve done both.

I still have these twisting poem ribbons. That’s a comfort. They tie me to my life like gauzy lifelines. Without them I’m an astronaut unleavened by oxygen strings and invisible radio waves carrying my labored voice. Without poetry I’m a rudderless kite. I’m Major Tom.

I’d really like to write a book, though. I really would, but the world is too viscous and I can’t slog through to the end. Every moment is a handful of soap bubble images, stuck together and popping and wondrous and consuming. I can’t take my eyes off the tiny things long enough to understand the underlying chemistry of soap, so the bubbles open up into singular lenses and I can see perfectly through each one. To write a book takes larger thinking, an ability to truck the lens back and chart the progress of fifty soap-bubbles heading for open air.

I’m always afraid that seeing the Big Picture means eliminating handfuls of exquisite gesture, split-second connections, the texture of the moment. The world is too thick with story. I might miss something important.

I’m a beribboned astronaut paper kite losing soap between my fingers, afflicted with literary pointillism. Maybe that’s why I can’t write a book.

Write as if no one is reading

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It’s a breezy Sunday night. Almost cool, like October really ought to be and sometimes isn’t here in Arkansas. The house is quiet, the lamp is low, and all the dishes are done. I’m making time to write, which always makes me happy.

I should be golden.

I’m not. There are papers to grade, class planning to do, and a frighteningly long list of things I Did Not Get Done during the Fall Break. I’m a little ranty, a little mean about the papers I did grade. Not because they’re bad, but because they oozed into break despite my best efforts. There’s a spot on my carpet that needs attention, and there are spiders in my garage that need killing.

This is my M.O., my downfall. Intellectually and pedagogically I know for certain that writing doesn’t require a perfect moment or a room of one’s own. I’m also fully aware that creativity isn’t necessarily a special, spiritual moment of jupiter-aligned-with-mars magic. I teach this every day.

I just fall back into it every once in a while. It’s like eating cheesecake. I can go for a year being smart and strong and then, POW. There’s cheesecake on my fork. The writing habit is just as mysteriously interrupted. I don’t know how it happens.

That’s actually the reason for this blog. A self-imposed daily post gives me enough reason to make the words come out. The posting itself keeps me from whining and ranting pointlessly, which is what happens in the little journal I carry around.

At any rate, the papers still need grading, the spiders and spots need eradication, and I don’t have anything to wear to work tomorrow. Who cares? The dishes are done, I’ve written my post, and there’s no cheesecake anywhere near me.

Success.