I have come to think of Naked Comes the Writer as my ghost book. It seems to follow me in silence, peeking over my shoulder, commenting on each thought as it appears in my brain, mocking me, consoling me, and pushing me on.
How odd to be writing a book about writing, when it seems like my word count about writing is ten-fold the word count of my real writing. I can actually hear the laughs of editors around the world. “She’s writing a book about writing? Now, that’s a scream. Who is she anyway? Ever been in The Journal? The New Yorker? Well, just what can a whiny, lonesome, short lady tell us about writing when she’s never been published?”
Well, I can tell them one thing. Writing is about the most self-indulgent, prideful, egotistical, intoxicating, trance-inducing fixation a person can ever take up. But just so’s we can hang onto our drug of choice, we have all sorts of ways of justifying it. We call it inspiring, entertaining, cautionary, thought-provoking, or freedom-saving. But all in all, it’s just our personal way of seeking stories to pin our pride and ego onto, sending them out into the world and waiting for someone to write back and tell us how wonderful we are.
I actually believe the best time to write about writing is before we have the chance to send our writing out. That’s when the “game” feels most real. You stand at the top of a 100-foot platform, rise on your tippy toes, and then bend down, gathering your muscles into one final burst of strength, springing up into the air and outward, arms arcing over your head into the first graceful moments of physical beauty. And that’s when you look down and notice someone’s drained the water from the pool.
Now, high in mid-air, they want to tell you should never have jumped to begin with. Who are you to think you’re a writer? I mean, look at that form, all wobbly and scared, and insecure. If we had believed there was any chance you would be able to dive, they say from below, we would have put water in the pool. But, hey, why waste good water? You would never have left the tower, if you’d known what’s good for you.
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THE WRITER’S LIFE
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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