Yesterday I discovered that I had deleted everything I’ve written for the last six months. Ok, so it’s not like it’s genius or anything, but they are still MY texts. At first all I could feel was nausea, but now I think that it may be a good thing. Although I could have written melodies to all the lyrics, and the stories could have become short stories, or even be developed into short novels, the stories are still in my head. Some of them I’ve been thinking of for years. The most important text I had printed to start editing, so that one I have (am very glad, I like it a lot).
There is something soothing about it, having the possibility to start again afresh. I am so busy finding an apartment these days that I have completely lost the routine. I don’t get much reading done either. I get so anxious… All ambitions set aside, I suppose I just have to accept that I need to write and read, and I need to do it every day. It’s becoming less and less important whether I ever get to publish something or not. If I don’t have any talent, I’ll just do it to please myself.
I came across this old interview with Andrea Barrett (The Voyage of the Narwhal, Servants of the Map) in THE PARIS REVIEW the other day. I so enjoy reading stories of writers becoming a writer. What she says is extremely inspiring. So many creative people are “banging their head against the wall” for years and years before they’re able to write anything remotely good. Of course there are a lot of people who never really makes it, but there are a lot of people who do. Here is the link for the interview: http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/79/the-art-of-fiction-no-180-andrea-barrett
Also, I read a very beautiful collection of essays written by Joyce Carol Oates a couple of months ago. It’s called “The Faith of a Writer”. The essay I enjoyed the most is called “Notes on Failure”. Would love to tell you about it some day. I have great appetite for books on writing these days, and this one is quite a pearl.