Perils of a writing life

Literary Domain

A writer’s life is a perilous one. This may seem incredible to those outside this self-contained world; this occupation may appear deceptively, even absurdly, effortless and without any of the trials and dangers of other, more serious, endeavours.

After all, how difficult can it be to sit at home — in all probability in one’s favourite chair — with a cup of steaming tea or coffee at hand, and write? It is only a matter of putting down word after word, not anything that is remotely taxing at all. The casual observer cannot be faulted for coming to this conclusion, if he or she ever pauses to consider the life of a writer.

The truth, however, is that the life of a writer is rife with hazards. Consider the predicament of a writer as she sits down to begin a piece of writing. This may be a short piece, fiction or non-fiction, or a longer one, a novel even. The time is late morning, for many — not all, there are larks among writers too — writers labour late into the night, seeking to take advantage of the quiet time and thus rise later than non-writing people.

Anyway, it is late morning, the writer has dealt with the necessary household chores, only just had a breakfast, a frugal one to write better on, and with a strong cup of coffee (or tea), sits down to write. To find that the mind is empty. The mind is emptier than her bank account and that is saying a lot.

If the piece is a non-fiction one, the writer may be fortunate enough to have an assigned topic to write about, but even that may not be sufficient stimulus to the blank, unhelpful mind. When it is fiction that is the work at hand, this act of creating a beginning is an almost impossible one. Anything can be written about, and sometimes, the word anything can be as overwhelming as the word nothing. Nothing comes to mind.

So, while the world hums along and people everywhere go about their pre-assigned tasks, the writer hovers at the edge of despair. She strains to find the first words, the magic key that will unlock the flow of thought she so desperately needs. As she struggles, alternating between sitting in her lucky armchair and roaming the house frantically, looking in the most unlikely places for inspiration, she encounters all the perils that lie hidden in her everyday world.

The doorbell rings: it is a delivery boy looking for the next door flat. With the ring is shattered a thought that had been taking a nebulous shape in her head. She sits down, brow furrowed in concentration, desperately trying to retrieve that idea, but like all thoughts, it has dissolved into the misty corners of her mind. A second one will have to be found. The writer pulls out a book by a much loved author; perhaps something in those beloved pages will unleash a torrent of words. Just as she succumbs to the pleasure of well-known and loved words, the phone rings. A friend is in the neighbourhood; she wants to drop by for just a minute and a cup of coffee.

By the time the friend leaves, it is late afternoon and the writer now finds herself hungry. A sandwich later, she looks at the clock and is appaled to find that the child will soon be home from school and that the effort to find those elusive words will have to recommence later in the evening, after the child goes down to play.

The mind is an obstinate thing. Even after the child is sent to play, it refuses to cooperate and the writer is now frantic with worry. Soon, night will set in and with it the responsibilities of the material world: dinner, putting the child to bed and other such duties will naturally take precedence. When will the words come? If the writer is lucky, she finds the words that same night. On less happy occasions, it takes days, and when a particularly arid period intervenes, it may be months before a clear thought takes root. And years before the manuscript is finally ready.

Along the way, as the writer seizes thoughts and words as best she can, bending them into shape, she forfeits precious things: old friends, for many do not understand the compulsions of this erratic life; new friends, for the writer works so much in isolation that she often is distant from the real world; good health, as she submits to an irregular circadian rhythm and her spine takes the brunt of hours sitting hunched in one place.

When finally, the weary work is done, and the manuscript or piece is sent off with trepidation, it is weeks and months before the writer knows the fate of that unborn piece. If the writer’s luck holds, and there are many pitfalls here, her words will see light of day, but then again, the piece may very well find its way back home to her. Thereupon, starts again, that familiar struggle.

The feverish scramble to find a clear thought, an idea to write about and once that is found, the words to give shape to that unseen thing. This is a perilous and treacherous path indeed, but one that the writer finds herself compelled to journey on, day after day and year after year.