Victory, Brooding and Disillusionment

Forgive tonight's odd ramblings.  They have less to do with writing and life in general and more to do with the strange mood I find myself in.  I think we writers as a whole are an eccentric breed.  I definitely wouldn't be so arrogant or so bold as to overgeneralize and say that we feel things deeper than other people; that just would not be true.  But I think to some extent, maybe we process things longer, or lament about them more, or simply brood.  That must be it: we're brooders.  Which happens to be exactly what I am doing right now.

In Novel News--I am finished Draft One of my YA work-in-progress.  It is currently marinating.  Sort of.  I've had a few readers and so far I am getting really positive results (which, as I trust these people's opinions, I hope are not simply to praise me, but because they actually enjoyed the piece overall).  I know that publishers are a whole other kettle of fish but I am not ready to start delving into the mindset of perfecting query letters or a synopsis just yet.  I am not even ready to go and pick up a handy-dandy Writer's Market guide yet to see who out there exactly would even look twice at my manuscript--that feels odd calling it that rather than just my book.  Somehow it makes it more credible.  To tell someone, "Yes, I have just finished writing my manuscript and I am about to start sending it off to publishers" just sounds more credible than "I wrote a book."  Especially when it seems like just about anyone can write a book nowadays if they have enough motivation to sit in front of a computer that long.  It's the publishing that is hard.

Actually, that reminds me of another thought that is buzzing around my head lately (I'll get back to the brooding one momentarily, forgive the detour).  So as to the book vs manuscript... in the last few days I have recently had the privilege of telling various people that I either want to be a full time writer or that I have finished writing a book--or both.  Most people look fascinated and smile and ask all sorts of encouraging questions. But underneath it, I cannot help but wonder if this has the same overall effect as telling someone that you want to be an actor.  Most people smile and nod and telling you interesting or courageous you are but underneath it all, it feels like they are just thinking, "Really?  Why don't you pick a job you can actually make money at?  Or actually have any shot of success at?"  Because let's face it, in the entertainment industry--of which books are a part--there are so few people that actually 'make it'.  So I always feel oddly self-conscious when I tell people that I am a writer or that I have written a book, like I have said something ridiculous that they should be patting me consolingly on the back for.

Anyway, back to the brooding thing.  So, I am brooding tonight.  Even though it is getting to be later now, when I first started brooding was about an hour and a half ago when the hubby went to bed early and the two dinos were also down.  The house was surprisingly quiet--eerie almost--and I was drowning my sorrows on the Xbox. 

At any rate, I sat there and suddenly felt incredibly lonely.  I have to admit that since I have had the big push to finish the book, I haven't been in the right headspace to communicate the way I normally do with the hubby.  Most of the time when I am in the 'zone' it is one of a handful of phrases: "Yes, sweetie.  Okay.  No.  Thanks.  Go away, I'm writing.  Talk to you later."  He's lucky to get more than six consecutive words out of me.  Normally, we have a really deep bond; somehow he managed to immerse himself in the crazy worlds, characters and places that I am developing.  But recently I haven't had any creative energy to expend on anything but getting the book done and taking care of two recently sick dinos.  I feel lost and disconnected--even though I have finished the book. 

I read once somewhere that the spouses of writers are a brave lot to be able to patiently endure the 'fever' that seems to take hold of us.  Nights of typing away, days of being overtired as a result, flights of fancy, sporadic fits of agitation or tears or joy.  We are a mixed bag.  Sometimes we're feeling things that aren't even our own emotions.  Sometimes we're frustrated with our writer's block.  Sometimes we're overjoyed that we finally finished something.  But usually, less than 5 minutes later, we're ready to rip it apart.  We are our own worst enemies 90% of the time. Makes for a difficult position for the spouse.  And most of the time, he's braved the rapids of my journey with surprisingly good resiliency; I have to say that my husband is probably one of the most even keel people I have ever met.  And he has been lately too, but it is me that doesn't seem to be bouncing back entirely fast enough.  Maybe I am having trouble because I know the book is not really done.  I will take this as a sign of maturing as a writer because every other time I finished a book before I was all ready to send it off and thinking the work was over.  Now I am aware that the second pass over it might take longer than the first--hopefully not.

Either way, I feel a little like a soldier coming home from a war and surveying all the neat little houses on his street and wondering where the heck he fits in after the strange and alien landscape he's been in all this time.  Disillusioned--lucky enough to be victorious (I did finish the book after all), but sort of lost as to where I fit in now.  I am hoping it is just a phase, just a temporary clash of emotions, because I would really hate for it to be a downward slump.  Those are so hard to get out of.

On a somewhat positive note, I have to say that within 15 minutes of feeling like this, I was like, "I need to write." But I told myself I was not allowed to touch the First Draft yet.  And rather than digging up a new novel project or starting Book 2, I decided to blog.  Either way though, I am pleased and a little disturbed I guess, that these feelings of melancholy lead me right back to the thing that brings them on.  For this, I find that writing is ingrained in me like a sliver that won't come out.  Sometimes its filled with pain, a lot of the time it is filled with an indescribable joy as I watch my fingers fly across the keyboard and the words pour forth like a river. 

As Rainer Maria Rilke wrote in February 1903:

This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your while life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse.

http://peterjukes.wordpress.com/rilke-must-i-write/




So, too, must I write.  I just wish sometimes it was filled with the joy rather than the sorrow and brooding. Anyhow, that is all for tonight.