Writing days

I had a good writing day today. There are some days when I can’t get stories out of my head. I mean, everywhere I go I’m thinking “Oh, I could have him see a headline in the newspaper, then he’ll know about…” or “What if he was home schooled?” Probably not too good for my GPA, but it’s nice because it makes me feel like a writer, and that’s hard for me. And it reminds me that I like this stuff.

Ok, I like econ too, I like it a lot. And most of my classes I both wanted to take and actually liked. But I didn’t like them the same way I like my writing classes and I don’t like econ the same way I like writing. I think it comes from this strong belief that I will never really support myself on my writing, writing of any kind. Maybe journalism, I guess, but that’s not just writing, it’s different, it’s facts and writing. So writing is always avocational whereas econ, even though I know I will never be an i-banker or a consultant or anything, econ always feels vocational. You don’t do lit reviews in your spare time. No one sits back, grabs a beer, and starts running regressions for the hell of it, or worse, for the beauty of it.

But at the same time, I had this little twinge, a moment where I was suddenly concerned that my writing was becoming nothing more than a craft. I was trying to figure out how a guy who works a 7:30 to 4 shift could not get home till 9. And I felt like I should insert some random “he spent four hours at a bar” or “he ran several errands, getting new keys made, going to the bank, etc.”. Then I was like, is this a puzzle that has been made and carved already? Am I simply putting the pieces together in a prescribed order? Where is the art in this?

The answer I came up with, to the problem with the story, that is, was to have him go see two movies. The beauty of it was that it so fit the character, I was actually surprised I hadn’t been planning on doing that in the first place. Of course he would go see a movie. It’s dark and silent, and no one will be looking at him. He can hide even better than he could sitting in his room where his parents might knock on his door.

This was craft, but not a craft. It was technique, as my teachers call it, instead of directions. So I’m ok with it. And I might even be ok with writing by numbers, as long as I can sit down and plop words that are chaotic and meaningless and yet meaningful to me.