I’m not really sure what I want to write about today, other than to lament on the struggle I imagine most writers must face to just keep on writing. Surely even those successful full-time writers who’ve achieved the desirable ability to exchange words for money occasionally run into the occasional state of apathy where it’s just hard to feel passionate about it all.
I’m speaking from personal experience, of course. I would absolutely love being able to chuck in the day job and pay my way through life by sheer virtue of my writing talents. But just how exactly am I supposed to make this happen? While the temptation can be overwhelming sometimes to dive into freelance writing full time, I highly doubt I could make the same amount of money I currently do in a secure and promising career working for someone else.
So, instead, I pursue writing outside of work as a personal interest.
But let me just dwell on the notion of quitting my job for a moment longer. Think about it. Imagine you could just quit and do whatever you wanted to do. Feels good, doesn’t it? It’s something I’ve had on my mind for a long time. I’ve never been a corporate-minded person. Even as a teenager, I had an independent streak which I still remain proud of. I’ve always had a desire to live my life my own way. That’s harder said that done. As an adult, you need a good source of cash income in order to survive. Western civilization is littered with dreams abandoned in favor of mortgage payments and the kid’s college savings.
All of that is important, of course. When I talk about setting sail on my own course, I do so with the implicit understanding in my mind that a new lifestyle on my behalf must be able to accommodate my family’s existing standard of living. I don’t want to chuck in my 9 to 5 job in favor of becoming a penniless writer. I want to work for myself – and be in control of my own life – whilst maintaining the quality of life and level of income (at least) that we already have.
I’ve looked at ways of doing this. Freelance writing is tempting, as I’ve said, but in order to get a solid start on that quest, you need to dedicate a significant amount of spare time to building up a regular client bases so that you can know with confidence that the financial rug won’t be ripped from beneath your feet the moment you hand in your notice. I know this route is not impossible, but due to other commitments, this path is no currently an option for me.
A few months ago, I bought Tim Ferriss’ book The 4-Hour Work Week. The book (and his blog) was certainly an inspiration. But my enthusiasm quickly faded into a mind-boggling mess of confusion and depression as I tried to figure out how to launch a successful business which could allow me to leave my job while simultaneously still working at my job. Tim talks about there being no excuse for excuses, but my response is that his book is targeting young bachelors who can lack any obstacles preventing them to spend a year living in Thailand while their businesses takes off. I am a family man with a mortgage. It’s going to take a different approach for me. It’s also going to take considerable time, time which I should be spending on writing and which I already aren’t.
Finding the time to write has become a real challenge in the past few years. I suppose that’s just part of growing up and accepting the myriad responsibilities which come pre-packaged with adulthood. By the end of the workday, you are exhausted and need both a physical and mental rest. It’s more important that you spend quality time with the people you love (or at least doing chores which need to get done) than locking yourself away in a quiet room and staring at a blank page.
Since becoming a father, even tricks that have worked in the past have failed. Paying for writing contests and courses in the hope of feeling compelled to write have not proved as fruitful as I’d hoped. Rather, they’re received considerable less time than should have been spent on them and have not been nearly as enjoyable as I’d hoped. Work is draining me, and realizing the rut I’m in yet recognizing no easy escape has made me depressed.
“If only I had more time,” I told myself. But where am I supposed to get this time from? I leave the house by 8 every morning and rarely get back before 6. Add in two to three hours a night of being in parenting mode, plus eating at some point, and before you know it it’s time for bed. Trust me, I need a good sleep before I do it all over again tomorrow. It rapidly becomes apparent that my lunch break is perhaps the only spare time I have exclusively to myself. Yet even after wolfing down my food as quickly as I can, those five hours a week disappear fast: to the freelance writing job I do have which needs to get completed; to calling my family back home thanks to time zone necessities; to absolutely having to get out, get some fresh air and clear my head because I’ve got another busy afternoon ahead of me…
Why am I particularly worried about this now? Well, next week I start an intense 12-month screenwriting course during which the plan is for me to write two feature-length screenplays over a period of six months each. The first is going to be a spooky ghost story (which I’m sure I’ll discuss on here in greater depth soon enough), while the second is likely to be a rewrite of an earlier screenplay I’ve never got quite right, Nightlights. After battling with a depression which has prevented any serious writing, I’m both anxious and excited to get started. But I have no idea where I’m going to find the recommended ten hours a week to dedicate to the project. It’s going to be a tough challenge, for sure.
Unfortunately, even if I do turn out two scripts decent enough for entry into legitimate contests and festivals, I’ve still done little to escape the daily grind of wake-commute-work-commute-bed. It feels like I’m juggling multiple wants poorly. I don’t have enough hands. There are not enough hours in the day.
Last week, after attempting to figure out an amendment to my current schedule, I began getting depressed again. I figured that getting up a good hour or two before my wife and boy would be a great idea. I’d have the house to myself to quietly work on my writing, and I’d be able to drive to work each morning happy in the knowledge that I’d already accomplished something for myself before the day had even properly began. Unfortunately, the experiment failed. It may work with some amendments. Somehow I’ll have to just cobble the time out of thin air and establish a more structured routine as I go on. The point is, I’m feeling more optimistic right now.
Why? Honestly, it’s all because I started reading a new book. My fiction-reading has been tumultuous over the past few years to say the least. And I love getting sucking into a new book. But for every few months where I’ve had a good stretch of reading book after book, there is an equally bleak stretch where I’ve read virtually nothing other than magazines and my pre-bed routine has consisted primarily of movies and TV instead of reading. I believe that this is due in no small part to the belief that I should read things that are good for me. I’ll read two or three mindless thrillers or adventure novels, then decide that it’s time to read some proper literature. Quite often, I find the recognized classics to be such a struggle to get through, that I abandon them – and fiction – altogether for far too long once again.
(Please note that’s not to say that I only read pulp fiction of the likes of Crichton, Hornby and Grisham. It’s true I grew up on their books, but I also list Chabon as one of my favorite authors. Last year, I am ashamed to say, I spent close to six months trying to get through Snow by Orhan Pamuk, which was just as interesting as it was a struggle).
That’s what actually happened to me over the past few weeks. I’d finished some forgettable book by Stephen White which I thoroughly enjoyed and so promptly decided to tackle some Charles Dickens next. His books are great, that’s not in dispute, but they’re hardly decent bedtime reading. So I avoided reading for a fortnight before admitting to myself that the grow-up thing to do was actually to admit to myself that I didn’t have to finish the book and I should just start on something else instead.
I’m do glad that I did. What with trying and failing to re-calibrate my daily schedule and with all these other thoughts circulating my mind – not to mention being hyper aware of my impending screenwriting commitment – I was starting to feel severely down and in desperate need of a boost. In short, I needed some inspiration. Boy, did I find it.
I am currently just five chapters into Julie Orringer’s debut novel The Invisible Bridge and I am honestly in love. It’s the best book I have read in a very long time. I don’t have much experience in writing about literature, so please pardon my attempt to do so here… What appealed to me about the book was the setting: Paris, pre-WWII. It’s an era I’ve been interested in for a while. From what I understand, the war will inevitably unfold and the Jewish protagonist will get a front row seat to the horrors of the Holocaust… But it was the early setting which piqued my interest.
So far the book is an absolute joy to read. Orringer’s style is incredibly easy to read; it flows just as easy as any cheap bestseller you’d find at an airport, yet you simultaneously recognize the genius which has constructed these words into sentences. Any aspiring fiction writer should take a gander at this book. It really is an exemplary example of construction and design made to feel incredibly organic. I’ll say it again: I’m absolutely loving it. I can feel myself smiling as I read it, due just to the pure beauty of the writing.
You may not know this about me, but one area of films that I’ve particularly come to enjoy over the past few years are some British films both made and set around the outbreak and indeed throughout the duration of World War II. Personal favorites are The Life And Death Of Colonel Blimp (Powell, 1943) and Night Train To Munich (Reed, 1940). Both films embody a sense of adventure combined with a particularly European sense of whimsy, and so far I’ve been delighted to find – unexpectedly – that The Invisible Bridge does too.
Orringer is the master (mistress?) at cleverly allowing the narrative to go off track before seducing you back into the main story so subtly and entertainingly that even as I was reading it, I could help but think of past books I’d read which had failed at such misdirection and narrative construction. Yet Orringer makes it seem effortless. There is one recent sequence which I’ve read, for example, where the lead character has trouble boarding a train due to suspicions over his passport and subsequently drops it off the platform once it is finally accepted as genuine. It’s such a small moment but is filled with colorful detail and such charm that it’s a real pleasure to read. It really is a joy.
So, in short, thanks to The Invisible Bridge, I am inspired once more.
Of course, the downside of all this is that I am once again reminded of how inadequate a writer of prose I truly am. I’ve poured so much effort into my training as a screenwriter, and the art of writing a novel is a wildly different beast. But I would love to give it a shot. I have accumulated a great many story ideas over the past decade, most of which began life as screenplay ideas. A handful of ideas remain with me which I know would make great stories. I do still tent to thing in terms of screenplays, but I have a very real desire to try my hand at a novel. Those ideas I still cling to I know would make great novels, if only I could write them.
Reading the “about the author” section in Orringer’s book reminds me once again (as if I could ever have forgotten) that the life of a successful novelist is one which I could adapt to quite easily. “Orringer lives in Brooklyn where she is currently researching her new novel,” the book says (I’m paraphrasing). Yes, I’m jealous. I don’t think I could ever manage to write something as amazing as Orringer has done with her first novel, but I think I could carve out a niche for myself as an author, somewhere between easy beach reading and proper fiction.
So maybe, here in public, I could set a challenge for myself? Maybe I should, once my year-long screenwriting commitment is complete, switch focus and try to complete a full-length novel? I’m not going to take that bet right here. Not at this instance. Not right now. But it certainly something I would love to do. Of my handful of story ideas, I have already narrowed down the two or three most likely candidates for my debut.
Oh! But it’s all about having the time isn’t it? How married people trying to support their families have managed to do it in the past confounds me. Has anyone ever managed it, actually?
I don’t want to be one of those people who’s life passes them by. Who only finds the freedom to pursue their passions once they’ve paid their kids way through university. Just the thought of it makes me sad.
Unfortunately, I do not have the answer right now. I’ve just got to keep plugging away, desperately hoping that something will happen. Maybe I’ll find the thing which I can turn into a lucrative side-business which will allow me to at least trim my weekly hours reporting to work at a job I find merely satisfactory. Maybe one of these scripts I write will do well enough at a contest that I’ll feel empowered to take the leap and switch to writing full time. It’s all perhaps. But for now the most important thing (other than supporting my family) is to continue enjoying spending as much time as possible with them (my boy is already growing up too quick) and committing as much time as possible to my writing.
Fortunately, there are plenty of thing in this life which can help give you a boost, to recharge your batteries and let you feel inspired again. There have been numerous examples of films or other pieces of art which have inspired me in my recent past. I write because I have to. I hope that one day I’ll be able to making a living doing what I love.
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Sorry if this extended blog has become more of a rant than intended. It’s a shapeless, pointless entry, I’ll admit. But as I said when I began, “I’m not really sure what I want to write about today.” What you have just read pretty much entirely comprises my current state of mind: dreams, family, work, money, desires, life… This is certainly a case of my using my blog (or by extension the internet) as my own private therapist, but you have to do that sometimes, you know? If you’ve made it this way through this entry, then congratulations and thank you. I’m just sorry that I can’t award you some kind of prize!