The Whale Belly

I’ve grown increasingly frustrated with my writing. I never finish projects, abandoning them for the next, seemingly more promising idea.

Part of the problem comes from constantly changing my identity as a writer–novelist one day, poet the next, ethnographer the day after that. This constant bouncing prevents me from wading deeper into any one pursuit.

Perhaps, though, my problem is this very urge to define my writing in identifiable and conventional terms. My drive to fill a particular role or produce a particular form is taking away from what actually fascinates me about writing: the slow, meditative work that unfolds beauty, meaning, and purpose. When I think about writing in terms of completing some task or impressing someone, I lose connection with the continuous cycle of research, experimentation, and reflection that makes it so interesting. I have to believe that the right form will naturally emerge if I trust the process. Otherwise, I’m likely to pack some prefabricated mold with timid ideas.

Maybe the first thing I need to do is articulate a number of questions, or gather them as they arise, and that way I’ll always have some project to work on, based on my current source of agitation and anxiety. I picture, for example, having several tabs in a large binder, each dedicated to a particular problem or question, that I can add to whenever I feel impelled to explore them, channeling my anxieties into focused energy for research and writing. And I can allow this writing to take whatever form comes naturally.

But I’m also wondering what this means for my approach to reading. I mostly read in a general way, reading the “Great Works” to establish a foundation for building knowledge, to prepare a fertile soil for creative work. My plan seems to suggest I ought to be more intentional about the books I read in order to answer whatever burning question is currently vexing me. However, I’m simply unwilling to give up my march through the literary tradition, sunken cost fallacy be damned! My desire to embrace the long human legacy of art and science and my curiosity to know its essence are far too great.

Plus, there’s maybe a hidden benefit in refusing to narrow my selection of books to practical ends, for reading indirectly requires more of my participation in making meaning from what I read, more interpretation, and thus more creativity. But I suppose I’ll need to strike a balance between purposeful and exploratory reading to get the most out of it.

From now on this blog will be the place where I post my notes and reflections–these tentative accretions of process–whenever they happen to form. I really have no idea what value such posts will provide readers, but I’m hoping that if they provide me value, they stand a chance to provide it to others, as well.