I once had a story accepted for publication at The Quarterly, a literary magazine edited by Gordon Lish. The magazine closed before they could publish my story, but it ended up being published in Atlantis, the UNCW graduate school’s literary journal. The story was titled “San Pollo,” and I thought I’d never write anything better.
Since then I’ve written “The Weight of Boys,” which was better, and “A Boy-sized Space,” which was better still. When I wrote “The Weight of Boys,” I had that feeling again, that I’d never write anything as good. I’m older now, and I understand that I’ll write better stories than “A Boy-sized Space.” I might have a couple that are better now, if I could find the energy to finish their revisions.
The thing is, I don’t feel like it.
After spending two years working on a novel I still consider “pretty good,” I’m totally wiped out. Minutes I used to scrape and claw from my day for writing or revisions I now spend in some a kind of fugue state, staring at the wall and wondering whether or not I should be doing something. This comes also with vague guilt and not a little dread.
I fear I might not write anything again.
Academically I know this is ridiculous. Still, it’s a real fear and one I’ve had before. When I finished my thesis, I didn’t write anything for almost two years. I thought I might be done forever. Then I spent another couple of years writing funny little journal entries (we’d call them blog posts now) at a thing called Diaryland 1. Then I started a bad science fiction novel, took a break to run a politics website, finished the bad science fiction novel, ran a cooking blog, then started Boone’s Landing.
Yes, I’m a grown man with a family and a full-time job.
I seldom wonder where I might be if I hadn’t spent so much time fucking around, but I do wonder sometimes. I can say this: if I hadn’t dabbled at Diaryland, I don’t think I would have ever married my wife (let’s have a drink some time, and I’ll tell you a bit about emotional gymnastics, the gentle art of passive-aggressiveness, and how the online you is perfectly positioned to write all the moony eyed crap you were always much too cool to say out loud. The mean stuff, too, but that’s another story.)
It’s something other people must go through. They get tired. They finish up something big and need some time to recharge, to gather some new experiences or something. Still, it’s been a long time since I’ve been in this position, and I’d rather not spend the next two years futzing around.
So now I wonder, what’s next?
1. Back in the olden days, folks fell into two camps: Diaryland or Livejournal. Livejournal housed the goths and geeks and science fiction writers. Diaryland seemed a little more indie. We all make our choices, okay?
