No Drought of Doubt

Since my earliest memories I have been a creator. I don't mean to imply by this that everything I've created was worth the effort I put into it, or in fact any effort at all, but create I did and continue to do. Over the years, by talking to others of like ilk and reading their comments, I've come to understand that almost all creators alternately admire and despise their creations. In my own case that extends beyond the creation to the creative urge itself. I wonder how much simpler a cast my life would have taken on if I could just have been content with coming home from work and flopping down in front of the television like the vast majority of other American males my age.

But no, I had to roll up my sleeves and hit the drafting table, wood shop, easel, cement mixer, yard, ham shack, typewriter, keyboard, modeling bench, or some other locus of dabbling and drilling until it was time for bed. It got to the point where I owned a television solely for the purpose of watching taped movies a few times a year. I haven't subscribed to any cable TV service now for over half a decade. You'd think that as a fantasy and science fiction author I'd be into watching television shows and movies of those genres, but I can seldom rationalize giving up enough time from writing to accomplish even this pleasant activity, though it might quite legitimately be thought of as 'research.' (Why 're-search?' Does that mean you didn't find it the first time?)

Returning to my thesis, if indeed there is one, this love/hate dichotomy with the products of one's own mental perspiration recurs as a philosophical topic for me periodically, most often when I am engaged in a certain unavoidable biological function that lends itself well to cogitation. Most of the things I create I regard, quite frankly, as crap, especially when I compare them with what others working in the same medium having produced. My admirers, if there are any left in the general population, feel otherwise and have told me so on occasion. There's no accounting for taste.

Writing, the creative activity in which I am now involved full-time, is something of an exception for me. Sure, I still churn out crap on a regular basis, but unlike many of my other creative pursuits if I designate a piece of writing as having little to no value I have the option of fixing it, at least so long as I catch wind of the excremental aspect before something unfortunate like publication happens to it. That's a luxury many other art forms cannot be said to enjoy.

Irony stalks into my life regularly and from various directions. One of her favorite paths is through my writing. I can spend months slaving over a hot keyboard to produce a novel, polished to what appears to me to be mirror-finish perfection, only to have it either ignored or outright rejected by publishers, agents, reviewers, and even the man who comes to change the bulb in the street light out front. By the same token, some shallow throwaway piece I wrote while waiting at the doctor's office ten years ago and hastily edited for submission ends up being a finalist in a prestigious literary competition. Does this illustrate an intrinsic fairness and force of justice pervading the universe? I hardly think so.

In fact, it almost seems the more work I put into things, the worse they stink. This blog entry, for example, took me well over an hour.