The Great Fiction Fail of 2010

 

“How’s your story going?" he asked.

“What story?” I asked.

“The one for class. The 20 page one that you’ve been talking about!”

“Oh, that,” I hedged. “It’s going really well. Wow, these tater tots are fantastic! How are the nachos?”

“How long is it?” he pressed.

“Try this Sam Adams Summer. I like it better than the Winter Ale,” I respond.

“Your story, how long is it?”

“Well, I don’t actually have anything written down. I’ve been going for walks and thinking through it and have written some outlines,” I said. “It’s all just part of my process. “

What a load of crap.

It’s really not very nice to lie to one’s fiancé. I’ve never written fiction before, how do I know what my process may or may not be? You aren’t allowed to be that pretentious until you have something to show for it, and as yet, I have nothing to show for it. I don’t think that I even realized it was an outright lie until last night when the squandered eight weeks came to a screeching halt. I had to face it, this story will not be finished on time. I haven’t done enough work on this. I have been doing other things.

Rather than writing I have been talking about writing. I have been telling people, in a very smug manner, that I’ve been really busy, what with the story I’m writing and all. I have sighed that this weekend I really should devote some time to the story I’m working on. “I have so much going on right now, and really I just want to sit and write my story.” Once I even caught myself saying, ‘well, it’s sort of an unconventional coming of age story.” Oh, brother.

Rather than writing I’ve been wedding planning. Incidentally, I’ve been wedding planning rather than doing my job, rather than doing my housework, rather than pretty much everything else. For a year and a half I’ve more or less avoided being the girl who obsesses over her wedding but those days are gone. With two months to go I have embarked down the one way road of flowers and fabric swatches. Rather than writing I have studied invitation fonts and I am mortified to admit that I actually lost sleep debating the virtues chicken versus pork. It is my fervent prayer August 1, 2010 will mark the return of the Erin I was before I learned what a French Bustle is.

Rather than writing I’ve read Harry Potter. All of them. Again.

Rather than writing I have been enjoying the spring. Who can sit at a desk and write when it’s Sunday and 65 degrees and there is corn hole to play and burgers to eat and beers to drink? Rather than writing, I spent my picnic in the park watching kids play tee-ball and listening to hippies in their drum circle. I made friends with the other sun deprived Chicagoans waking up after their eight month hibernation. I only mildly regret the Vitamin D nap that I took with my blank journal opened next to me on the blanket.

Rather than writing I’ve searched for apartments on Craig’s List, even though I know that there are no postings for a September 1st yet.

Rather than being a writer, I’ve pretended to be a writer. This is a sobering truth that I can’t quite ignore. I’m not a writer. Not yet. Until I can pass up Pub Trivia in favor of sitting at home and working on my piece, I’m not a writer. Until I can ignore my roommates and the T.V. and the phone and the e-mail from our florist and $5 martini night and going to plays and just sit and write and focus, I am not a writer. Until I write more than I talk about writing, I’m not a writer. Not really, anyway.

It scares me that writing isn’t a desperate, burning desire within me. Don’t all the great writers say that if you don’t have to write then you should find something else to do? Like macramé? The truth is that I don’t have to write, I just feel better when I do. I feel better when I shelve my self-consciousness and just write something, anything, and listen to myself and the words I’m putting down. I feel better when I dig deep and exert a little bit of discipline and just write. When did writing become like exercising?

And so rather than turning in my twenty page story-cum-novel that has been rolling about in my head for weeks, I’m turning in an essay. A non-fiction essay at that. Major fiction fail. Still, I hold out hope that my embarrassing honesty will somehow propel me along the road to becoming the writer that I pretend to be. I’m hoping that by holding a mirror up to myself, I can finally identify the places I need to fix. By writing about not writing, I’m hoping to help myself write? Wow. Shouldn’t have sat that close to the hippie drum circle!

And Isaac? Please. Please, don’t ever let me use the word ‘process’ again. Seriously. Pretentious.