Letters 1860-1867

Someone once asked Flannery O’Connor why she wrote, and she answered, “Because I’m good at it.”  

A great quote—an inspiring quote, really—but for every inspiring quote there’s a time.  And that time is not at two in the morning after reading a limp draft eleven.  The quote somehow fails to hit the inspirational note.  It will more likely evoke the following internal monologue:

Am I good at writing?  Am I good at writing?  Am I good at writing?  Well, how do I know?  I guess I’ll reread draft eleven.  Nope, still not good.  I guess that means I’m not good at writing.  I guess that means I should stop writing.

I was surprised to find that Dostoevsky had rough days too: “My writing was going poorly . . . I suddenly began to dislike the story . . . The whole story is junk.”

“Junk” is the word he often uses to describe the novel he was writing at this time.  He is so adamant that I start to believe him . . . until I find out what novel he was writing.

He was writing Notes from Underground, which is not only one of the greatest novels ever written, but it marked the major turning point in Dostoevsky’s writing career.  With it, he went from being merely an interesting writer to one of the greatest.  And what did this document of unfathomable acceleration of talent feel like to write?  Junk.

Dostoevsky regularly says that “after writing something, I completely lose the ability of regarding what I’ve written critically, for a while at least.”  He even would defer decisions of quality control to his editor.  In other words, while writing, Dostoevsky lost the capacity to determine if the writing was any good.

Reading this shifted my perspective.  I often approach writing thinking, yes, I love to do this, more than anything, but I might not be good at it.  In that case, I should stop doing it and find something I’m good at.  The phrase “natural talent” can be particularly insidious in moments like these.

But even Dostoevsky, the greatest writer of us all, had no ability to evaluate the worth of his work in process.  And if the Big D can’t, why am I putting that expectation on myself?

This is a load off.  On a day-to-day level (and what other level is there?) result-management isn’t the business of a writer.  The only business is the task at hand.

If I have to be good, any sort of hardship dissuades me from continuing.  If I were good at writing, I think, it would be hard, sure, but not this hard.  But if the day’s path is simply where I’m to go, I can accept hardship with the spirit of adventure.

The Literary Endeavor is bigger and more and important than any one writer’s ego, and it is better served by commitment than by comparison.

Am I good at writing?  None of my business.  Not even Dostoevsky could concern himself with that.  But I can content myself to keep plodding in the direction I’ve been given.

This is what that looks like for my writing practice: 

1.  Log the hours

2.  Do what’s in front of me

3.  Trust the process