Laurie, la flâneuse

Okay writers, I cannot tell a lie (sometimes the writer’s code of “tell the truth” can be a royal pain in the tush). I’d like to tell you that I’m well on my way with my novel, getting into the groove of my morning writing. Well, I am writing and it is morning, but my novel wanted to slow down again — okay, not all of the truth: my oldest is heading to college next week, I looked at the pending bill, and I had to — no, chose to — put some other things at the top of my day. For now.

So how do we, as artists, writers, manage the pulls of making a living, tending to children, a partner…how to we remain commited, yet flexible enough to respond to life and to ourselves?

Do any of you recall the TV commercial Orson Welles did for Paul Masson wine? I’ll never forget his dramatically delivered phrase, “We will sell no wine before its time.” This is how it seems to work with my books: I can’t seem to push the process. If I commit too early, I sabotage. Somehow, when the idea has cured enough — some ideas go bad, and I let them go — but the ones that get more and more compelling take hold of me.

Then there’s life. I’ve also learned — am learning — that in order for my art to flow, it is essential that I keep myself and my family safe: meaning, for me, cash flow. Oh, an artist so hates to talk about this! We are supposed to despise money.

But you just can’t do that when you have kids — or even when you want to be responsible to yourself. There is romance in the stories of writers who fall into dangerous levels of debt and, just before they lose the house, the book is sold for an astronomical advance, and all is well. Don’t get me wrong — I love these stories, but they don’t apply to the vast majority of us.

Most of us, published or not, live in the middle. We balance, or try to.

So is all of this a big justification for my failure to follow through? Or is it wise for me wait on one batch of wine while another reaches maturity?

I think I commited too early, but even that is serving a purpose. I’ve wedged a place in my consciousness for the kind of writing that comes with no promised advance or vision of a book, but helps me sort things out. I’m writing my blog (and finding this both enjoyable and helpful).

 My novel still lives, and I’ve fed it during my first week (okay, three day) of consistent writing. Maybe I’ll treat myself to visiting my characters on Saturday mornings. Or use the 400 words for writing whatever is compelling me (the novel, nonfiction, this blog, poetry). Life for me is more fluid than I’d sometimes like, but I’m a taster: try it and it may be  just right, it may be off,  or it may need some time.  

Now I need to go and make some money (a consultation project). Postscript and to be continued (unless I don’t): I completely underestimated the heartache I would experience in launching my firstborn. I’ll miss his light around the house — and his friends! 

Bye for now, Laurie