“I’m sick of sitting around here trying to write this book” – Bruce Springsteen
I haven’t written much of anything lately. Not even lately. In a while. In a long while. Like, for the last year. Maybe two. I have snippets of stories, half-finished stories, almost-finished stories, and a third of a novel that’s actually half-decent. So what’s the problem?
I suppose it could be because I’m having a particularly typical quarterlife crisis, being the good white middle-class feminist that I am – it’s to be expected really. My motivation has stalled, although to tell you the truth, I never really had all that much to begin with. I am coming to terms with my own moral and political relativism – I can’t seem to get particularly riled up about anything in the news even though we’re living in an increasingly riled up atmosphere. The old me would have been frothing at the mouth to rip Glenn Becks’ black heart out through his fat neck.
Moral relativism is probably a good thing for a writer, because god knows how much I hate those fucking pretentious self-important “political” novels (I’m looking at you, Don Delillo, you douchebag). The ugly stepsister of moral relativism is apathy, though, and I’m finding myself crossing the line over into the dark (and lazy) side.
I’m trying not to make a habit out of self analyzing, but hey, I’m almost twenty-five and have a liberal arts degree and saw Reality Bites too many times – Ethan Hawke says I’m supposed to do this.
Any suggestions from any of you how to get the lead out, literally and figuratively? Joan Didion, one of the smartest writers in the world, went to San Francisco, but it was the sixties, and I can’t afford the airfare. “I went to San Francisco because I had not been able to work in some months, had been paralyzed by the conviction that writing was an irrelevant act, that the world as I understood no longer existed. If I was to work again, it would be necessary for me to come to terms with disorder.”
I have the opposite problem: I have to come to terms with order, the world of being a grown-up, before I can write again.