A Good Kind of Bad

It’s been on my mind lately that I have been somewhat neglectful of this blog in the past two months, and in order to rectify that and to make sure the first entry greeting you when you visit this site doesn’t have the word “poo” in the title (that one’s for you, Chuck), I’m going to add this entry even though I don’t know at this moment of typing exactly where I am headed with it. I started this blog to try and make myself write more regularly and have some level of accountability with it, not to mention edge myself out of my comfort zone by having what I write made more public vs. shared only with a few people that I can count on to always be kind and supportive by virtue of blood relation or a long-standing friendship. That said, the lack of posting could be interpreted as a lack of writing—but, I am happy to report, that is not the case.

I’ve actually been doing quite a bit of writing in the past two months, only none of it has been suitable for blog posting. Some of the writing has been for the upcoming Advent season at my church. Once it actually *is* Advent season, I’ll probably post some of that, but it just didn’t fit with October. Another project that was occupying me was a job writing tea descriptions for someone’s website. I’d give you the link here, but she hasn’t posted them yet. And finally, a great deal of my writing energy, so to speak, has been directed towards working on a novel in the past two months.

If it were possible to whisper in a blog, that last sentence would have been the quietest, most mumbled whisper you’ve ever heard, because actually saying that—putting it into words and knowing that other people are going to see those words—is an extremely uncomfortable thing for me. It’s jumping into the deep end of uncomfortable—the part of the pool where the bottom drops away suddenly and you have to paddle like mad to keep your head above water.

I’m not exactly sure why this admission is so uncomfortable for me. Perhaps it’s mainly because I think, not so deep down, that declaring that I’m working on writing a novel is cheesy and pretentious, and that it puts me just one step away from smoking cigarillos, wearing a beret, and affecting disdain for the world around me. Far from puffing me up with supercilious pride, however, starting down this path has been an extremely humbling and even grueling experience. For one thing, I’ve discovered that while the original concept seemed great in my head, the execution of it thus far has been…not so much. Whenever I read a really amazing novel, I’m always in awe of the author and think, “I wouldn’t even know how to begin to write something like this!” and then when I read a really terrible novel (which I did towards the end of the summer, and which I blame, in part, for my even starting my own novel), I think, “I could do this!” And it turns out that I am right. I, too, can write a lame novel. Or a lame first 15-20 pages of one. I won’t know if I can write a lame novel in its entirety until I finish it, if I ever do.

Of course, in my little heart of hearts, what I really want is to write an amazing novel, not a lame one. I would even settle (possibly) for “pretty good.” But while others may have the genius and talent to churn out great pages from the get-go, I do not, and I am having to learn to push forward and just write, whether I think it’s any good or not. This is not an easy task considering that I have spent my entire life actively avoiding having anything to do with anything I’m not 85% or more certain that I will be good at. In case you weren’t aware of this, it’s fairly easy to be an accomplished person when you run like the wind from anything difficult for you, like, say, sports or math or first dates. So, according to my usual M.O. and all those mean voices in my head that say things like, “who do you think you are? You can’t do this! You don’t have the talent! You don’t have the skill! You don’t have your MFA—only an MA!” and so on, I ought to be chucking this attempt in the trash like moldy cheese.

But I’m not. Despite all the exclamatory internal messages to the contrary, there is a tiny little pipsqueak of a voice that urges me to continue on, and even makes the astounding claim that it’s okay to write a lame novel, because even if it never sees the light of day, it is still a worthwhile experience. There may be something to that. If nothing else, this whole venture might help make me less of a hypocrite. I’m always encouraging my students to take risks and to try out ideas even if they’re “wrong,” because that’s the way to learn and grow, and mistakes lead to discovery, and blah blah blah. I practice very little of that in my own life, however. So maybe it’s time for me to learn how to be good at being bad. Maybe it will be a little freeing to learn that I don’t become an instant outcast or get an “F” branded across my forehead if I fail at something or just slog forward in mediocrity.

So, yes, I am working on a novel. And no, I won’t tell you what it’s about. And if you try to talk to me about it in person, I’ll fake a diversion (“look at that fire!”) and run away.

Baby steps…