Note: This was originally a letter I wrote to an editing client. But I liked it so much I’ve decided to share it here.
Hope the rewrites are coming along. I just came across a fantastic article in The Atlantic Monthly about author Fay Weldon’s perspective on the futility writing and it gave me the chills. A case of just the right words at the right moment, or at just the wrong moment, as it were, for me, lately.
Weldon riffs on on Camus’ old conceit that “One must imagine Sisyphus happy” and presents it as an essential metaphor for anyone having a serious go at writing. I love the visual of Sisyphus pushing the boulder up and up the hill, and smiling all the while, because though his efforts are futile, there is a certain elegant rebellion to the act. We think of him with pity and consternation, because how could anyone be happy in the face of such a grossly impossible task?
Like Camus and Weldon suggest, maybe we’ve got this particular ancient Greek all wrong … Maybe we are painting him with the colors of our own judgments and self-imposed limitations. Perhaps he is improbably happy, if for no other reason than because his decision to doggedly pursue an impossible passion is an act of wonderful, ridiculous defiance. Defiance of the odds, of expectations, of conventions, of a universe that sometimes seems not to give a shit about us at all. What a metaphor for the creative process! And, of course, the larger article is a very nice meditation on the joyful futility of writing anything at all. Check it out here.
Which brings me to your question: what am I thinking, career-wise? Hem. It changes, moment by moment. The last month has been rather hard on the heart. A whole lot of rejection, and a whole lot of me being unwilling to take the advice I so freely dole out to my clients, my writers: Keep on! Rejection is inevitable. Focus on improving yourself. Pout briefly, then keep going. Doors closing and opening, blah blah, etcetera, ad nauseam. The problem is, I’ve secretly hoped it wouldn’t apply to me. To everyone else, sure, but note me. I don’t want to take my own medicine. Why? Because it’s bitter as hell. Because it smarts going down. Because the lumps and bumps are for other people, but not for me. Alas! The horse-pill of writerly rejection is a non-negotiable. I get that now. We all want to be the exception, deep down. Maybe it’s the way we’re brought up in this country, made to believe that if only we apply ourselves and try sincerely, the world will welcome our talents and reward us generously with money and accolades. If only it were. We are all unique, special snowflakes, but only until the gods rain piss all over our tiny, precious dreams and we go melting immodestly back into the clay.
That said, over these long, lonely weeks in Mexico of pouting and simmering and broken computer cords and sipping rum and swinging lackadaisically in hammocks and bartering with the universe and making threats to myself to never try and publish another thing again, I come finally to this: frittered time, wasted opportunities and squandered talents ought to terrify us far more than they do. At the least, doing nothing with our gifts certainly ought to scare the shit out of us slightly more than taking up that dusty boulder for one or a thousand more gos up the hill. No matter where it’s all leading. Too many people give up on themselves. I’m an easily discouraged person, I suppose, but to deem myself, at the ripe age of 33, a washed-up, never-was writer strikes me as a wee bit dramatic, even for my excitable sensibilities.
In short, I’ve determined to keep at it with the personal writing projects. As far as money-makers go, I will continue to edit manuscripts such as yours, as this is fulfilling and heartening and perhaps a regular essential reminder that it’s all connected, and that the laws of the universe apply to us all, no matter how many fancy writing degrees we have hanging on our walls (or, as in my case, stuffed into my desk drawer with coffee stains on them). That’s a lumpy lesson, indeed, but an important one, and one that is being given to me over and over, so I might as well acknowledge it and get on with things. I’ve also decided to pursue professional copywriting more aggressively, again, because I enjoy it and because it keeps the lights on.
It’s a long game, I suppose. I get that now. So, to borrow a line from Camus and the article above, I’m going to imagine myself happy and soldier on accordingly. Here’s to boulders, and mountains yet to climb! Here’s to 2015!