There are days when I’d prefer to avoid to write altogether. And I do. And I can afford to do so, because my livelihood doesn’t depend on whether I finished an article or story. Then, of course, there’s the guilt. And the mountains of writing advice out in the real world, searchable in the ether we know as the interwebz, that suggest how much you should write, how often you should do it, and the appropriate number of lashes you’re to give yourself, should you disobey.
I think its hyperbole and the notion of writing large quantities of words, whether you want to or not, is meant, in my mind, to instill discipline. And nothing else. The idea is to stop waiting for the “muse” to come around before you get to work. And that’s cool. When the number of words is a correlate to the amount of food on your table, it’s to your benefit to believe this. And in general, it’s a good lesson because it does help you learn how to write on command, which will save you should a deadline loom over your head. However, something got twisted along the way, when this fanaticism with prolificacy turned from necessity (if you want to eat) to a teachable aspect of craft (if you want to be a professional writer).
And it goes against, essentially, the central purpose of writing. That is, using this outlet when you have something to say. When you feel as though that which roils inside of you needs to be expressed and maybe heard or, in this case, read. And to me, it explains some of the pitiful stories I’ve read as of late, when I put it down and asked myself, “What was the point? What did the author want to say?” These aren’t open questions. This isn’t interpretative dance. If I, as a reader, can’t answer these questions, and I consider myself to be a decent critical reader, then the conclusion is that the author had nothing to say, there was no point. This, I’m afraid, is getting passed off as “literary” fiction these days…at least in some corners of the lit world. Some work has no business getting published. But I’m unpublished, so call me a hater.
I think that’s the consequence of teaching people to write even when they don’t feel like it. Which is another way of saying, “I don’t have anything to say right now.” Cool. The better alternative, I think, is to keep a journal or a blog, and keep practicing the act of writing. Not everything has to be a part of a novel or short story or poetry collection you want to slap together. When you write all the time, and leave no room for space, for breath, for life (ironic since all three feeds your work), then you lose sight of why you decided to become a writer in the first place. Because you wanted to. Writing is too painful of a business to not enjoy it, to turn it into a “office job,” which many of us are trying to flee in the first place.
