Yesterday after posting my 31st blog I had a little mini discussion with a friend of mine who also writes. You can see it on the Facebook page for my blog. We have different writing processes. He's a polisher, you wouldn't see his work until it's been written and rewritten. I'm a brain dumper. Or at least for my blog.
I don't rewrite (as you can tell) much of what gets posted here. I have other stories in other folders that I work on, fuss over, change each word in a sentence so many times over that you can't even tell what the original sentence was anymore. The endless polishing and rewriting of something that you want to get "just so" before you send it out in the world. I still have to open the folders from November and work on the rewrites for that story. I've been putting it off because for now I can imagine there is some brilliance in there, but I'm worried it's all cranked out crap. I will look after I get home from Hawaii. I will live my fantasy for a few weeks longer.
But the thing that got me really thinking was a quote that Svet posted by Charles Bukowski: "If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is."
Okay, a few things, Bukowski was a poet. And he was German. And an alcoholic. So he's kind of predisposed to this sort of thing. But I actually see it a lot. Maybe not a dramatic as this, but like I said German, poet, alcoholic. People will tell you that if you don't really work for something you can't appreciate it. Blood, sweat and tears.
But I'm not that person. I'm not saying I don't know how to work hard. Or that I don't work hard when it's called for. But if what I am doing is making me miserable and there is no way to stop being miserable while doing that thing, I stop. I think hard work and misery are two different things. I know there is a romantic image of the writer or poet suffering for their art. The starving artist. From great pain comes great art. And all that jazz. And there are other people in the world who are successful in their fields who love to tell you their tale of struggle. I walked uphill in the snow...
But does it have to be that way to really be worth something?
Does the suffering make it better?
Do you really appreciate it more if you struggled to make it happen?
I'm not sure.
At least not for me.
I can tell you that I have been successful at things I struggled through. And things that I enjoyed every minute of getting there. Did I appreciate the ones I struggled at more? Not really. It becomes a spite win. I will do it, just to prove I can. But I'm not really happy with the result, because I wasn't happy with the process. Because that's the way I'm wired. I want to be happy with what I am doing. The process, the journey, is the end result. If I am unhappy 90% of the time to get to that 10% of perfection it stops being worth it to me.
So that means brain dump blogs and short stories here. And the polished stories in folders to be sent off to be published, after a few more rounds of polishing. And the only way the ones can be polished is if I have the happy free space to write what I want as the words tumble out of my head here. Because I really struggle with the polishing. And truthfully some of my favorite stories are the ones I write here in an hour and never change a single word of.
There are people in the world though who love the struggle of it. If they aren't at least slightly uncomfortable they don't feel alive. If they aren't a little miserable they don't feel like they can create something worthwhile. Beauty is pain. Blood is the life force behind the art. And they do make beautiful art. They write wonderful books. They create incredible pieces. But I can't do it that way. If the smile leaves my face for too long I start looking for something else.
So I'm not a German, poet, alcoholic.
And I'm okay with that.
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