the enchanted 15: work

There is something obvious about writing I haven't really addressed thoroughly.  

Writing is work.  

Sometimes, I am embarrassed by this series called The Enchanted 15; in fostering a sense of enchantment about writing, I realize I am bucking more realistic, hardened views of not only writing but the world.  It is easy to mock enchanted thinking and accuse it of being ignorant, as if it erupts from either a lack of knowledge of reality or an obtuse denial of it.  I can even step outside and mock myself, especially after a day of slogging through another section of my dissertation.  The task feels anything but enchanted and I feel anything but empowered, responsible, and open, the three things I think people must be in order to succeed at anything.  

That mocking spirit reminds me of a friend who once said something, dripping with irony, "I'm so sweet and happy I poop butterflies and pee rainbows."   

She was funny when she said that, naturally.  (And you just have to know this friend to know how funny it was, coming from her, in particular, do you know what I mean?)  The irony in her words had all the flavor of recognition, because, really, it is sometimes impossible to be happy, and disillusionment, like other stuff, happens.  

That's the mindset that makes you look down at the keyboard and start to despise it a little.  That's when you realize that writing is work.  But here is the tricky part, the part I think a cynical reader of this series might miss:

It's that sloggity-slog-slog, uninspired, day-in-and-day out that makes the task enchanted in the first place.  

Why do men and women achieve anything at all?  How is there any joy in life in the midst of pain, betrayal, and inhumanity?  Why get up in the morning just to work?  With the horror in the world who cares about what little things I scribble about, or, to ask a question that was once asked, raw, full of pain, and unavoidably "realist": How is there any art after Auschwitz?

If you follow the answers to these questions through to their ends--and I mean all the way through and not just to the first glum thought that pops into your brain--you do not find disenchantment.  These questions point directly to the source of enchantment that breathes life into the world repeatedly.  It is the source that never tires of creating a blade of grass over and over and over again, that seems to think that despite our tendency toward evil and The Ugly, the world continues to need more flowers, more infants, more art, more gems, more music, more festivals, more wine, new fairy tales, and yet another full moon.  

Because, indeed, we do achieve, we do feel joy even in the middle of pain, (in fact joy and pain must be mixed), we do love again after betrayal, and we survive our inhumanity to each other.  And while one might well pose the question, how is there any art after Auschwitz, one might also answer quite simply: I don't know but there is.  In fact, there was art inside Auschwitz as the experiences of concentration camp survivors attest.  Maslow can take his hierarchy of needs and toss it out of the nearest window, because prisoners in Auschwitz made art, performed plays, and sang songs.  He needs to rethink the base of his pyramid.  

What has this got to do with writing?  Again, the answer is simple.  Your 15 minutes are not disenchanted if you feel uninspired, lazy, and dull.  If you feel that simply making the cursor move across the screen is burdened with all the effort of rolling a boulder up a hill, when you know it is going to roll back down over you at any minute, this is the moment that you absolutely, positively must not give up.  

Because these are the moments when you realize that writing--like anything we do in this world--is a hero's task. What joy would their be in achieving at something that is easy and makes us feel good about ourselves?  That's just autoeroticism. And while some might think the autoerotic is heroic--I've known those who do, quite clearly--to me autoeroticism is the antithesis of the heroic.  The hero achieves glory through neither immediate gratification  nor feeling himself to be the source of all power and pleasure.  In archetype, the hero always relies on forces outside of himself, allies and angels, to take the difficult path, the path that seems hopeless, and achieve victory.  

Many writers have talked about the moment when you realize that writing is not as romantic as you once thought it was, the moment when it ceases to be an ideal lifestyle but just plain old stinking work.  Everyone gets to that moment sooner or later---everyone must or they won't ever mature in their craft or contribute anything worthwhile to the world.  Nothing, absolutely nothing of value comes without labor.

No, when the writing begins to feel like work, it is not the end of the romance of writing. 

It's just the beginning of it.  

Comments

[aspiritlikethewind.blogspot.com]

This post reminds me very much of Ecclesiastes. Actually, when I read the summary I wondered if you might be quoting from some obscure translation! I like the idea that being work is not necessarily a negative, though.

[Jen Pierce]

Thanks Charli--I had several writers and writings in mind when I wrote this but Ecclesiastes was not one of them. Though, now, I sort of see what you mean, particularly in overcoming despair and living hope in a world mixed with joy and pain in sometimes unequal measure.

[Alison Wells]

This is a realistic and also compassionate post and is just so right for the stage of writer I'm at at the moment, particularly the bit about the boulder rolling back down the hill. I've blogged a bit too about the dark and the light, the joy and the pain being two necessary sides of any experience. I also believe that the 'intention' to make a change, to make space to write, to begin, to achieve a certain number of words is laudable even if we fail to absolutely achieve it. It is an impetus in the right direction and once we rejoice in it while accepting our limitations we free ourselves from guilt and the burden of expectation. We do only what we can do and we do it because we love it and absolutely have to.

[Jen Pierce]

Nice to meet you Alison. and thanks for your lovely and thoughtful comment. The guilt and burden of expectation--that turn of phrase is just spot on, and it may show up in another post at some time. I'll remember to credit you for it! LOL.

That it is an act of love is also right on the money. You do it out of love as an offering and with intention. Otherwise, it will never pay enough or bring enough accolades, even if you are Stephen King. It's too much to give for praise and money.

[twitter.com/CafeNirvana]

This is so true. And I don't think it applies to just writing. It holds good for anything we choose to do, especially if it involves reaching out to people in some way. I think I am going to print and laminate this post and walk around with it as my mission statement, so that I am reminded that I am not alone in feeling disenchanted with work, and that it's okay to feel like that, the feeling is not forever. :) Thanks for writing this brilliant article.

[Blog Nerd]

Caff: thanks for the high praise! and for reading and offering comment.