In which I write a blog post pontificating about what a successful writer’s life looks like. Not just an average writer, a mediocre writer, a casual writer, but a great writer. A flourishing writer. A prolific writer. What’s the behavior? What’s the schedule? How does the obsession to write manifest? I’m pretty sure it does not involve writing a blog post about writing, but perhaps therein lies the crux of my problem. I’d rather sit around and think about being a writer all day than actually buckle up and be one.
I think a successful writer writes as often as she can. I think she has to write; she doesn’t have to convince herself to write. A fish has to swim, a bird’s gotta fly, a writer must write. Like she’s running out of time. She looks for the opportunity, she doesn’t try to avoid it. I don’t write enough.
I think a successful writer can be a mom, but she probably pulls out her laptop and writes after the kids go to bed. She doesn’t collapse onto the couch and veg out with Netflix for the next three hours with a beer. She doesn’t mindlessly scroll through Facebook and Instagram. She doesn’t spend the time that her kid is asleep looking at videos and pictures of said kid. Okay maybe she does that, she is a mom after all. But she writes. She let’s the dishes stay dirty, and she has no idea what’s happening on Game of Thrones. When the kid is asleep, she writes.
She knows the value of an hour. A successful writer gets up an hour early if that’s the only time in the day to write. She doesn’t use her lunch hour to sample makeup at Sephora. She passes on happy hour because with everyone out of the office she knows that she can sneak in a writing session. Which brings me to socializing in general.
She doesn’t. Not when an idea has started budding. Not when she has a choice between hanging out or writing, between brunch or writing, between drinks or writing. She writes. She has come to be very unpopular.
She probably has a lucky pen, or glasses, or journal, or a writing sweater. I have those. That’s something. She salivates over cozy writing spaces with warm oak desktops, amber lamps, and coffee cups. I do. Points for me.
Everything I’m describing here? I love the idea of it. I love to fancy myself a madwoman, obsessing over plot points and character arcs. An eccentric who must lock herself away until the manuscript is done. A veritable storm of ideas. I like that idea.
But I’m not that. I love to sleep. I love to Netflix and chill. I love to look at pictures of my daughter while she’s sleeping. I love happy hours, and socializing, and blogging about writing. I love social media, and makeup. I love to waste time. So what, then? Can I ever be a flourishing writer if I don’t obsess over it? I have no idea. I’m not Type A. I’m short on grit. I guess I’ll just open the file for my novel and find out what happens. I’ll just write a bit, and maybe eventually it will add up to something. Maybe I’ll be the world’s most successful lazy novelist. A new mode. Write like you’ve got plenty of time. Your novel will be shorter, but you’ll be oh so relaxed.