Wednesday, August 20, 2008

a few thoughts from under the rock

Weird? Well, probably so. Writers are not like other people. It’s a lie to try to pretend we are.—Heather Sellers

This itch for authorship is worse than the devil and spoils a man for anything else.—E.A. Robinson

Flat country seems to give the sky such a chance.—Dodie Smith

I think that my social skills are deteriorating. Not that they were ever superstrong to begin with… (That’s not really fair. I promise that I do have friends, really great friends: a small group of amazing women who, I am convinced, will change the world.)

No, it’s the let’s-charge-out-into-groups-and-talk-with-everyone-and-be-the-Queen-of-Chit-Chat! attitude that I’m lacking.

No surprise, I’m an introvert. (Click here for the all-around best discussion of introverts I’ve ever heard.)

I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately—in part because I’ve heard a few times that introverts are actually scary people (!!!), or at the very least, strange people. Some people claim that we quiet types make them nervous… I don’t quite know what to say about that. (Does that worry you? Ha, ha, ha…)

I know our society generally adores extroverts—I’ve just never been one of them. Even in sixth grade, I wouldn’t know what to do about recess. So while the other kids were terrorizing each other, I wandered out to the farthest far place and sank into the grass. I spent the time explaining the clouds to myself.

At Calvin, I was surrounded by people—hey, it’s a fact of dormlife! And, to be honest, there were times that the dorms made me more than a little overwhelmed. (All those people! Everywhere!) It also paved the way for some really fun times—like our Gone in 60 Seconds party, and then our fabulously successful Pirates of the Caribbean party.

But now I’m drawing in more than ever. I forget to check my email for weeks at a time, and there are phone calls that are long overdue. I forget to talk at dinner. I’m not really going out much at all—maybe once or twice a week? Maybe less?

I’m spending everything on the book, every spare brain cell, every shred of creativity I can find. I feel like I’m living in the world of my novel, like all the characters are wrapped around me, chattering all day long. So I don’t feel like I’m being quiet. I don’t feel solitary or silent at all.

Now truthfully, how weird does that sound? But it’s true, and I can’t tell you how right it feels. I’m writing over thirty hours a week, which might not sound like much. But spending over six solid hours each day hammering out dialogue and plot lines feels like a full day. I hope to increase my stamina (maybe to seven hours a day?), but for now, this is working very, very well.

I’m wondering if that kid in sixth grade wasn’t as weird as she (and her classmates) thought. Maybe she was just training her brain for the solitariness of novelwork? Over and over, I’m reading writing advice that says You can’t be running around, doing everything, making everyone happy, and still get your writing done. And that just sounds so true to me.

In this writing life, I’ve finally found my track, my groove. And I think it’s paying off… The novel keeps opening up, getting larger and larger, until I am convinced of two things. 1) I will never finish! This thing is beyond me—over 161,500 words and still growing! 2)...but if I ever do finish, this will be the best darn book I can possibly write.

Maybe that’s worth all this time being quiet and solitary and strange? Maybe writers really don’t have to have “normal” (read: busy) lives?—jl

Posted by Jenn Langefeld on 08/20 at 04:53 PM
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