I’m taking a break from rewrites for the book I will likely always refer to, at least internally, as my “pandemic novel”. This will always be the novel I wrote in the heart of the COVID-19 virus outbreak, the one that forced citizens worldwide to quarantine, wear masks and gloves when stepping outside for a routine errand, to social distance at least six feet away from other human beings when in public. That killed hundreds of thousands and infected millions. That politically divided a country. That brought out the best in people, and the worst in people (the very worst of which seemed to crawl out from beneath moist rocks and from between mildewed floor planks like an infestation).
Of course, it’s also the time of civil unrest due to the fight against systemic racism, the murder of George Floyd, the uplifting heights of hope and the soul-crushing, heart-wrenching valleys of police brutality, crime, and fallow, selfish leadership at nearly every level (but especially at the top).
But I think “pandemic novel” works. Does the job. If for no other reason, the pandemic gave me the time to sit down at my desk every day and work, my day job in the film industry being shelved until it’s deemed “safe”; until this pandemic loosens its grip and people start being part of the solution instead of the problem. As I write this post, that day is looking more and more like one that takes place in the year 2021. Which sucks.
So, I work. I write. And write and write. At the sake of sounding like a braggart, but for the point of this essay, I’ll give you the stats: In the last 6 months, I’ve written two novels (and the rewrites that come with them), a novella, four short stories; as well as a Foreword, multiple book reviews for magazines, and a handful of articles for an online entertainment website.
When I wake up with nothing on my plate, I put something on my plate. Not because I’m prolific, or driven, or a workaholic. It’s for one reason and one reason only:
I’m panicked.
I write like Indiana Jones runs when the boulder is rumbling down on him from behind. I write because I’m at the point of my life where the balance has shifted from me being in the “first half” of my life to the dreaded “back nine”. Yes, I’m still in my forties. Technically. Like, hanging by a thread. Which means my life clock and, even more so, my career clock, is ticking louder and louder every day. Sometimes it’s all I hear.
TICK … TICK … TICK … TICK!
I started late. Well, I should say, I started publishing late. My first story sold when I was in my mid-forties. In the years since, I’ve published nearly twenty stories, a story collection (with another on the way), some foreign editions, and a few novellas. I’ve had three agents, three book publishers (for one book!). I’ve now written, but not sold, three novels, one of which has been sitting patiently (or not so patiently) on editors’ desks for over a year. A YEAR.
Seasoned, professional writers are out there right now saying, “Well, yeah, that’s how long it takes. A year or more to sell a book, if you sell it at all. Plus another year or two until the book is released. It’s glacial. Welcome to publishing, rook.”
Now imagine a cartoon stickman banging his head against a wall again and again and again. That’s me waiting to sell a book. I’m as impatient as a tick tasting blood. But hey, that side of things is out of my control, right? Unless I want to pull those novels away from my agent and self-publish them, I gotta play the waiting game.
Which drives me CRAZY.
Because remember what I said earlier? About my forties. Hanging by a thread, baby.
TICK … TICK … TICK … TICK!
So I do what I can. I do what is in my control.
I write.
And write and write and write. I write in the morning, the afternoon and at night. I write every day, weekends included. When there is no pandemic and I’m working 12-14 hours days on a movie set, I can’t write. Which means when I’m not working, ho boy, I’ve got some serious catching up to do. Plus that next job could be right around the corner, which means there’s another clock that’s ticking. Between jobs, I typically have anywhere from a couple weeks to a couple months of freedom. So I cram in as much writing as I can. Fast. Because all those clocks are ticking, right? So if that means ten-hour writing days, if that means 10,000-word days that burn my eyes and scramble my brains, then that’s what it means. If that means no social life, no languid trips, no days off, then that’s what it means.
I’m not driven. I’m terrified.
I write in a frenzied panic because I know that at any moment God could pull the rug out from under me, or the quarantine will be lifted and I’ll be sucked back into a job, or … or … or…
Tickticktickticktick…
Okay, so why am I telling you all this?
Honestly, I don’t really know. Part of me hopes that by sharing my nerve-shredded anxiety about carving out a writing career, others may see a bit of themselves and know they’re not alone. That we’re all caught in the same whirlpool of age and time and fear, rowing backwards, against the pull, to reach the surface. To not be sucked down, forgotten in a vortex of darkness.
Maybe I hope it will inspire others to take writing more seriously. To realize that time is short, that each day is a gift, that being in your 30’s doesn’t mean immortality. That the clock – or clocks – are ticking. Maybe NOW is the time to write that novel you’ve been playing around with in your head all these years. Maybe NOW is the time to sit down and bang out that short story, or poem, or screenplay.
Maybe a little anxiety is a good thing, because it drives us to the act of creation.
Or maybe I’m telling you all this because living in a state of constant panic, writing as if each word gives me ten more seconds of oxygen, is taking its toll. And my reasons, then, are selfish. Nothing more than a venting session of fear and paranoia and unsolicited information.
So no, I’m not sure the reason for writing this. All I know is I had to write it. And I can’t think about the reasons anymore, because I’ve got work to do.
PF