Thanks For Not Writing

Ask most authors for their best writing advice and most will hand you the old saw, "You must write every day." They say that even when it seems impossible -- your only spare time is from 4-5am, you're hopelessly blocked, you're having brain surgery -- you must write something. Anything! And if you don't write every day, then clearly you're not committed or passionate enough. I've given this advice countless times and, for many years, actually taken it.

A friend of mine, a fellow author & teacher, once told me he didn't believe in this truism. After a few glasses of wine, he came out about the fact that he was on an extended break from writing, and that, despite some intermittent guilt, he'd never felt more creative, inspired or happy. He was alive again! Instead of straining his eyes at his computer, he was spending his time reading, taking walks, re-connecting with his family, and, every so often, working through plots and characters in his head. He was looking forward to a returning to his work one day, but until then he was "recharging." He argued that this recharging was crucial for his imagination and would ultimately make him a better writer.

My response: "Interesting theory." What I was really thinking: "So, he's not a *real* writer after all." And, feeling superior about my daily regimen of eye-straining and hand-wringing at my computer, I offered to pay for the wine.

Now, having not written a word of my novel for close to two months -- and even slacking on my blog responsibilities -- I am starting to see what my friend meant. My left-behind characters, who'd seemed stagnant and thin in April -- are beckoning me back, siren-like. I long to spend time with them, but instead of indulging that desire I daydream about what they might do and say. I'm back to what is most fun about writing: that sense of play and possibility. And though I could find some time these days if I tried, I might play hard to get with my book for a while. After all, that tactic does work in most other spheres of life.

Of course I could just be lazy. Or not a real writer after all. But my friend ended up writing two novels after his "recharging" period, so he's my new hero. And my new best excuse.

***

Just a few days ago I learned that one of my favorite poets, William Meredith, died on May 30th at the age of 88. I had the honor of meeting him a few times and hearing him read, and I am deeply saddened by his passing. He was an elegant, generous and accomplished man who will be missed by many.

I read a Meredith poem, "Crossing Over" at a friend's wedding last weekend, but here is another of my favorites:

The Illiterate

Touching your goodness, I am like a man
Who turns a letter over in his hand
And you might think that this was because the hand
Was unfamiliar but, truth is, the man
Has never had a letter from anyone;
And now he is both afraid of what it means
And ashamed because he has no other means
To find out what it says than to ask someone.

His uncle could have left the farm to him,
Or his parents died before he sent them word,
Or the dark girl changed and want him for beloved.
Afraid and letter-proud, he keeps it with him.
What would you call his feeling for the words
that keep him rich and orphaned and beloved?

--1958

~Christopher Castellani