A moment of weakness

It is interesting how the things that at one time inspired us to pursue what we dream about, can subsequently discourage us on a day of lesser strength. I sought out a used bookstore for inspiration. Although small, “Dog-Eared Books” in San Francisco provided the solace I needed for the frame of mind I was in. Sort of. Used bookstores seem to be the place where my intuition speaks loudest, and I feel free to follow it in any given direction without a real goal in mind. I grasped the spine of the first book that caught my eye. After I had primed the literary portion of my mind with excerpts from “The Bounty Trilogy”, I moved on. A book that a co-worker had been reading snagged my attention. A quick browse taught me that the author has become a best seller, and is on the New York Times list as one of the most promising writers under the age of 40. I looked at her photo on the back flap. She is a beautiful blond from Eastern Europe — and just two years older than me.

The ideal reaction to this knowledge would be one of encouragement. “Well, if she can do it, surely I can, too!” Instead, it was one of jealousy and a sudden feeling of futility. I took a few somber strides and picked up “The Writing Life”, by Annie Dillard. In the first few pages she describes a frustration regarding the writing process that is all too familiar to me. This, too, might have been encouraging on a healthier day, knowing that I am not alone in my struggle with word-smithing. However, my reaction was: I am really not so special after all. My quest to lasso the moon is a path that has been beaten down by many before me. I am left to wonder, “what do I have to offer that has not already been seen, accepted, and then cast aside?” The drop-in-the-ocean feeling that I despise so thoroughly set itself heavily upon my shoulders.

In a slightly cynical spirit of masochism, I bought the book. I intend to read it, pushing through the emotions of the average writer that are apparently ubiquitous, and find the joys that the book is supposedly full of, according to a New York Times book review.

As a friend of mine said recently, “The fire is still burning, let’s see what we can do.” Writing is about love, anyhow. Not about fame and glory, I remind myself. With shaky confidence I put pen to paper and let, as Dillard puts it, my words dig a path for me to follow. You never know, this may yet be the “road less traveled by.”