The Writer’s Loneliness
The Right to Loneliness, in Perpetuity
Believe it or not, I’m quite a lonesome writer despite how much I post about it online. I don’t talk to any fellow writers (long form, short form, or poetry), and I rarely talk about it with friends or acquaintances.
The topic comes up from time to time; usually as small-talk with acquaintances and other people I don’t talk to as often as I perhaps should. They politely ask me about my endeavors, or my hobby if they want to be mean about it. But weirdly enough, at least to me, very few people acknowledge my writing. Friends, acquaintances, and other. I believe there are people who have read what I write, maybe even read it all, but I can’t say for sure since no one has told me that they’ve read a story.
I’m exaggerating a little. There have been occasions when someone tells me that they’ve read Marcson Merger, also My Snow-Clad Mountain way back when it was published. But on the whole, I write by myself, for myself, and I get published or post my writing into a void where I don’t know if anyone exists. I’m stuck in a false reality, running in a writers-hamster-wheel whipped by grand hopes.
What happens then, with someone who devalue their work, or perhaps doesn’t value it appropriately (like me), is that I don’t bring it up to anyone either, and so I end up not talking to anyone about my stories or my writing in any way, shape, or form.
I’m not quite sure why this is. Why no one brings it up, and why none of the very few people that I much later find out have read my stories (through interrogation or by accident), shoot me a message or call, or asks questions about it when we meet. Just in any way let me know that they’ve read something I’ve written (story, article, post captions, or this very WriterLog). And, if they dare, what they thought about it.
I say dare because a lot of people wouldn’t want to tell you that they viewed something you made negatively. And yes, the little voice whispering in my ear is indeed telling me that this may very well be the reason why no one tells me that they’ve read anything I’ve written—because they simply did not like it. Perhaps even despised it. Which of course would be illogical given that I have by now had several published pieces, some in low-acceptance-rate publications, and have had editors notes that read “I loved reading this.” But whatever the creature is that’s producing the quiet voice on my shoulder, it doesn’t seem to be a follower of the school of logic.
This in turn have made me tell less people about my writing, at least ask fewer questions, or probe whether or not they’ve read anything of mine. Because those few times I do send something, or point someone in the direction of something I’ve written, seventy-four times out of seventy-six, I never hear about it again.
So believe it or not, I’m quite a lonesome writer. And I believe that’s partly the reason why I decided to start keeping a WriterLog. Since I don’t talk to people about it, and no one brings it up or asks questions, I thought it wise to talk to myself about it (more than I already do).
But let’s get some things out of the way before I really get started with the WriterLog. You, dear reader, may suggest internally right about now, that I should seek out a group of fellow writers, a camp, or why not a university class? Or perhaps there’s a group of writers in your city? And yes, these are all options, and sadly, I have tried them all… almost.
I may be pessimistic when it comes to this, but from my experience, writers tend to be a self-absorbed bunch. Something you could have gathered from my opening paragraphs. But they’re also writers, which means they believe they know what they’re doing (we don’t), and so set out to give you feedback not because they enjoyed or didn’t enjoy what you wrote, but because feedback should be given. And since they, as a writer, believe they know what’s up and down, they will give you highly subjective feedback that tend to miss the mark like a blindfolded lesbian at a fish market.
There have been many writers who have, like I, written about not mingling with their fellow daydreamers. As Stephen King put it.
“And what about those [writers’ workshop] critiques, by the way? How valuable are they? Not very, in my experience, sorry. A lot of them are maddeningly vague. I love the feeling of Peter's story, someone may say. It had something... a sense of I don’t know... there’s a loving kind of you know... I can't exactly describe it....
It seems to occur to few of the attendees that if you have a feeling you just can’t describe, you might just be, I don't know, kind of like, my sense of it is, maybe in the wrong fucking class.”
And well, that may just be it. We’re a self-taught bunch, and how do you explain the thoughts you’ve compiled and turned around and twisted and set straight and curled back up? Worse still, how do you do that while believing that you’re right and feel the need to speak to another writer since no one talks to you about your writing?
Perhaps you don’t, and shan’t, and perhaps you start a WriterLog on your website where who knows will read it. Who knows indeed. I don’t.
This Writer’s Current Work, Tools, and Everything Else
So, what does a lonely writer like you do these days?
I write. I try to write about 1600 words every day. Sometimes I write less, sometimes I write more. Sometimes I don’t write at all, and sometimes I pour out 3000 words as if my pen has caught the Noro virus and my paper is a porcelain throne. Sometimes I go weeks without writing, and sometimes I finish a quarter of a book in ten days. Sometimes I write only short stories, and sometimes I work on a novel, or a light novel that will never be finished, or poetry no one will see. Sometimes I write articles, or world-building. Sometimes I write whatever this is.
Before the summer holiday (July 1st to be precise) I finished my second book. It’s about a man who steps on a plane to go to a meeting as he often does, but when he falls asleep and wakes up, everyone on-board have disappeared. Where did they go? Is someone flying the plane? Will it ever land? And why does the sky and the clouds seem to go on endlessly?
During my travels (July to August) I wrote five short stories and finished them in late August. One was accepted by The Good Life Review and is the most personal story I have written yet. It is called Oh, The Bishop Stood and Sat, and you can read it here. It is about a relative of mine who passed away, and my feelings during and after the funeral, set into a poetry-heavy short short story. I am very proud of it, so if you have the time to read it, it’d make me very happy if you did.
As of now I am writing a third novel. It is a fantasy novel set in a steampunk-esque world attached to a second world, as well as attached to Earth. There are magicians in this world, and the magic system is built around teeth. Why teeth, Elliot? Well, I asked myself what the absolutely worst magic system would be for me to use if I was in that world, and came to the conclusion that anything that had to do with teeth, pulling mine out or touching others. Also teeth falling out. That would be the winner. I have a phobia for teeth. Used to be really bad, but now it’s manageable. Is it a stupid project to dedicate months to? Yes, very much so. But I believe it will turn out amazing, so I can do nothing but keep at it.
This project is turning out to be one of the weird ones.
My first novel was all over the place. I worked for a long stint, set it aside, came back and finished it, set it aside, came back and rewrote the entire thing into a new book… repeat. The second book was a 25 000 word novella which I turned into a 80 000 word manuscript in a few weeks, clocking in about 1600-2000 words per day. I edited five drafts in about 4 months, and then I was done.
This new project seem to be more akin to the first novel. I write 3000 words in a day, make image boards, write about the world and figure out characters. Then I don’t touch the project for a week. Come back and write for four days straight. Then back to nothing again.
During down-time I write on other projects (for example a romance/drama light novel which will, as I said earlier, likely never be done, nor see the light of day). I tinker with short stories, find literary magazines to send submissions to, or work on side-projects like writing for VTubers.
Then I stumble back into writing on the new project.
For those curious (me in the future for example), this project I’m writing mostly on my iPad, and some on my computer. It depends on how I feel like writing. If I need more inspiration I tend to work on my computer, sitting with image boards and blasting fitting music. If I know what to write before sitting down, I tend to work on my iPad.
I am not working with any of the myriad of typewriters I own. I am not sure why. I have already reached the conclusion that I work faster and more effectively when I use typewriters, but still I can’t bring myself to do it with this project. I should try it, and then write it down in a future WriterLog if I do.
My idea about why I can’t do it, as of now, is that I have another project, a 25 000 word manuscript (about 1/4 done) fully written on a typewriter (Royal 200 for the curious), waiting to be continued. And if I write on a typewriter, then it should be for that project. Not some other project. Completely illogical, I know.
Well, this was fun, writing out thoughts about my own writing. The weird loneliness of it, as well as tracking what I’ve been up to. Reading this in the future may be fun. Though my own words about writers being self-absorbed is echoing in here as if I’d screamed it inside an oversized parking garage.
Going back to writing a lot or a little each day, I have just written these 1700 words in single 90-minute sitting. On my iPad. In my bed. It is currently 02:24am on an early Wednesday morning, and I am going to turn off the lights.
Goodnight.
