notes on writing from the biggest fraud i know

this is from someone who is learning to love the work

I have been writing what I believe to be a novel for almost a year now. It almost feels like an act of faith (or Sunk Cost Fallacy), the way you can continue on, pursuing these people who exist in your brain, expecting they will find the way through to the best possible conclusion. I’ve been writing this novel under the guise of a “Creative Writing Honors Thesis,” which makes me feel the most like a liberal arts student. I have been writing a novel for almost a year, but it’s only been recently that I’ve felt it to be real, and I think it’s because I finally started believing the mantra I had told myself since the beginning: 

The story is always smarter than you. 

You always doubt it, reasoning that the story is you, you aren’t that smart. But there is something in surrendering; it will inevitably lead you somewhere. It’s only when I give in, writing for longer stretches of time, writing with curiosity, that I feel the invisible pull of what feels correct. Up until January, I had been writing with this cramped feeling, in only one or two hundred word stretches at a time, often weeks in between sessions. I know much of this is attributed to burnout. When it comes to work (or work I don’t see as work), I want everything. I want music, curiosity, movement, connection, everything. I needed to admit that my novel was work, and that I had lost my curiosity. 

I must admit that during the month of January I had been sleeping for eleven hours at a time. I felt unfailingly guilty about this. My niece would wake up from her first nap around 11am, and I would stir, and my brother would read a novel, taking cautious steps behind her as she traveled from room to room, steadily picking up speed. 

My niece is barely a year old and her name is Stella. Her hair used to curve above her head in a single magnificent curl; now, like everyone in this modern world, she has bangs. She has the most penetrating brown eyes, and she can stare at your face for what feels like minutes. Occasionally after this bout of staring, she’ll grin so wide her eyes nearly squeeze shut. It’s glorious. 

I could follow Stella around the kitchen for hours. Stella could play for hours. She could play with La Croix cans, empty boxes, the foot of the vacuum cleaner. I’m reminded of play as a concept for the first time in a long while, the way our bodies and minds have an almost biological need for play.  I have no scientific basis for this, but I believe it. I’m reminded of play as a concrete action for the first time in a long while. I structured those days around the circadian rhythms of a one-year-old, and despite the initial guilt, I loved it. And during Stella’s second nap, I would write. 

I write best when I don’t take myself seriously. I also write best when I do. I write best when I sit down in the chair and force myself. I write best when I’m spontaneous, a few words here and there. 

Under the best of circumstances, I write best when I approach my work with curiosity. Generously. The story is smarter than you. You are also smarter than you. I write best when I’m not forcing myself. Or the story. I don’t believe that there are fixed destinations to this process or a fixed story that exists just beyond our brainwaves, waiting to be fulfilled– it’s all forming, an intangible mess, and this frustrates me and I love it. 

The title I decided on here is misleading. I don’t feel like a fraud, and maybe I’m not old enough for the feeling quite yet. I’ve decided the act of writing requires play, curiosity, frustration, probably a bit of self-loathing–and forgiveness. All of this to say, I forgive myself for not working on my novel in a while.