The Alchemy of Words, or Everything's Role in the Process

More stating the obvious by me

Our job is not easy.

I say that of writing right now, but I mean to encompass every job on this planet. There are easy jobs in practice—the ones you hear bitched about by those of us who don't make six figures, by those who don't consider Monaco within our price range—but even they take their toll in stresses and worries, and in the simple fact that no-one who hears what you do likes you.

Writing, though—all art, as a subset of work—is one of few jobs that feels like alchemy.

So much goes into writing; and so much affects it. Writers, like all artists, pour their experiences into their writing (hence some of the recurring tropes one finds in writing, given the experiences that tend to lead to the creative life). Writers are students of life, collecting all the little bits around them. Unfortunately, life can also easily get in the way.

I don't just mean the workaday grind; I don't just mean the stress of the deadline. I mean little things, things you wouldn't think would affect it. Things like the temperature of the office; the angle at which you're typing; the extra weight of the book in your book-bag today, or the pile of laundry waiting to be sorted. One drink, or two drinks, or a few too many potatoes at dinner time, or that one high note in "Stand By Me" that keeps drilling through the wall and into your skull. The book you're reading not being that interesting. Or the argument you had this weekend with your best friend, and the way their eyes keep scowling up from your memories. Or fifteen missing minutes of sleep.

This weekend, I slept poorly on Saturday. I indulged my childlike impulses and I stayed up far too late. At the time it seemed insignificant: a day of heavy muscles and gummy eyelids, in trade for a few extra hours clustered around the digital campfire with my friends. Perfectly fair. Except that all week I've felt put upon to even leave my bed, and the day has been a slow slump to the left, and writing…God…that I've gotten work done three days out of four is a miracle, and I think I'm going to see serious revision to what came out on Wednesday.

Writers never fail a little; we always manage to fail a lot. We tell ourselves this is it, we stomp, we shout and proclaim. We're Dustin Hoffman as Hook, telling Smee that this time he shouldn't try to stop us. As I have been this week, wondering if I'd be happier without the pressure, happier without the thinking, happier if I could see a sentence without considering how it could be better ordered and kept. Happier if I didn't dream this direction; happier in a tie and a fashion plate haircut.

I wouldn't be. I know that. I'm just tired and off-center. I need a foggy sky and a warm breakfast and Will Ferrell telling Maggie Gyllenhaal he brought her flours. I need enough sleep that waking up is a joy. And I need a drink that tastes like came from an actual living organism.

Then I'll be happy. And then I'll Make Things.

I just wish people would pay me.