Forcing the Magic

On Trying Too Hard

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A quick note: My new book, THINKING ABOUT THINKING, will be published next month. You can pre-order it from Abrams Books, get a signed copy from my neighborhood bookshop, and find it worldwide wherever books are sold. Thanks for your support!

Okay, now for a painful confession…

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I spent a year writing a novel.

No one asked me to write one.

No one said, “Hey, that novel you’ve been hinting at for years—When’s that going to happen?”

I wrote one anyway.

On summer mornings I sat on the porch before the sun rose, crouched over my laptop, clicking away. On spring afternoons I sat on a blanket in the backyard and typed until my back ached. On autumn nights after the kids went to bed, I typed in a rocking chair, fighting sleep. I even wrote in winter, a little.

What did I have to show for it, at the end?

A few hundred thousand words. About two dozen versions of the story:

_____Novel_revision1

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_____Novel_finalfinalrevision17forrealthistime!!!

What happened to the novel? You guessed it. It remains…unpublished.

Unpublished. Unfinished. But not abandoned.

I don’t believe in abandoning creative projects. Sometimes they just need a few years on a remote island to “find themselves.”

Problem was, I was forcing it. I wanted so badly to have finished a novel that I never got around to telling a story. Instead of venturing out on the open road, I stayed in the parking lot of literature: grinding my gears, revving my engine, spinning the occasional donut.

It all amounted to a lot of smoke and noise, a lot of burned gasoline, and miles of tire tracks—all going in circles.

So how did I respond to this frustration? This realization that a long project might not bear fruit anytime soon?

First, I fell into a brief seasonal depression. (I blame winter.)

Then I opened a fresh google doc and started a new story.

How did it feel to abandon let go of a year’s worth of toil, countless hours of mental energy, and miles of muddled prose?

Actually, it was freeing. The new story flowed. It had emotional heft. It moved through my fingertips and onto the page quickly. (At least, the first draft did.)

Maybe this is the nature of creative work. The strenuous effort, the pushing against one’s limitations, even when it’s bad for the work itself: all of this sweat creates an opening.

An opening for a new idea that’s been waiting beneath the surface. To spring up. To grow. To bloom.

I’m back to work on the new story—the one that emerged after the long, frustrating novel. It’s not easy, but it feels like I’m heading in the right direction.

Like I’m finally chasing the magic.