A Fork in One Hand, a Pen in the Other

By Michelle Miller Allen

Why should anyone have to fantasize about having only twelve months of
an entire lifetime to devote to their true work?  Shouldn't devotion
to one's true work be a given, a concept supported by society, family,
even the writer him/herself?  Why must we feel guilty if we drop out
of ordinary life for a day to finish a chapter?

Yet that is how it is, in our culture.  The fantasy of "being a
writer" is strong but the reality of what it requires is neither
understood nor supported.  The same people who longingly tell you "I
always wanted to be a writer" will look askance if you take a personal
day to write.

Since my twenties I have been wrestling with the dilemma of "being a
writer" vs. "working for a living".  Only in my mid-fifties have I
found ways to devote more than weekends to my true work.  In maturity,
I have made lifestyle changes to place writing at the center of my
life, where it belongs. Yet it is not enough; I always feel I need
more uninterrupted time.

I have visited cultures where artists are supported.  For example, in
Caracas, Venezuela in the early 90s I met people in the theatre arts -
playwrights, directors, actors - who did not understand that I could
not stay longer, that I had to get back to my day job in America.

"But are you not a writer?" they asked.

These people were paid by the government to do their art and they
lived in very nice homes.

But there were also armed guards living in their art centers,
clustered with machine guns at every corner of their city.

With a year to just write, what I would do is just write – with more
focus, more confidence.

I wouldn't need to visit a beautiful island or hide in a woodsy cabin.
With such an opportunity to breathe easily and direct all of my
mental energy into the words, I could let go, for a while, of all
other roles, responsibilities and expectations, in my own environment.

The closest I ever came to my fantasy of a perfect writing life was a
one-week retreat some years ago, in which I house-sat for a friend who
lived in a rural area.  I left my husband to fend for himself, took my
computer, dog, manuscript, ritual objects, and hid in her house to
write. Ironically enough, the original plan was for two weeks, but my
then employer overloaded me with urgent projects at the last minute,
so I had to start my vacation late. If I had had a ticket for a cruise
vacation, she would not have done so.  But, after all, I was just
going to go housesit and write.  Nevertheless, in seven days I
finished  my book (which is now with an agent).  It was the best week
of my entire life.  I rate it above falling in love, getting married,
having a book published, winning an award, even above visiting the
Scottish Highlands!

Nothing existed but the words.  I answered what the creative mind
required, from moment to moment, giving my whole self to it.  Walking
through the house, I talked to my characters, taped drafts to the
walls and tore them down, spread out my index cards, rearranged them.
For twenty hours a day I wrote, taking occasional naps. I ate with a
fork in one hand and a red pen in the other.  When I slept, I dreamed
about my book.  I discovered my true writerly rhythms, entered the
world of my book, entirely, and it entered me.  I was in love.

Afterward, deliriously disoriented, it took several days before I
could hold a coherent thought or conversation with another human
being.

If I had a year to do nothing but write, I would take my current work
– four books – and go into that place again, but right here.  I would
do what I already do: rise at 6, write 'til 9, then attend to my
wifely responsibilities.   But in the afternoon, I could engage in the
editing, research and contemplation the work requires, instead of
turning to income-producing activities.  I could go into that world of
creation and stay there.  It would intensify the energy of my writing.

Perhaps someday the work of writers will be so revered that the "one
year" fantasy will become an irrelevant mental exercise.  But, for
now, that one year would be the invaluable gift of uncompromised,
focused time.


Michelle Miller Allen - spiritbear@valornet.com

www.greenphoenixproductions.com / http://abearnamedhope.blogspot.com