Zelda 9: The Outside in Your Head
Feb212007
One of the hardest things about writing is keeping the outside out of your head. When you’re writing and the story is in there so strong and you’re going ninety miles an hour, and then the phone rings and you answer it and it’s somebody foisting their wing-nutted-ness on you and suddenly the outside’s in your head. I was really doing well rewriting James’s scene last night and then this person called, and now I’ve got her voice in my head instead of James. Sometimes it’s family or friends who need you for a moment and you have to be there because you love them, sometimes it’s somebody spreading poison like last night, but whoever it is, it breaks that web of reality in your brain, and there you are, shut out from your book, your story spinning away from you.
I was talking online the other day with other writers about how many of us, although surrounded by people we love, would really prefer to just lose ourselves in our books. I worry about that sometimes, especially about becoming so detached from reality that my books no longer seem real, but it’s so hard to write when the world wants in, and the more you know of it, the more it clamors. I remember in the beginning, writing while working full time as a teacher during the day and part time in a bookstore at night to learn publishing and doing a lousy job of raising a teenager as a single mother (she turned out great, though), and I don’t remember feeling this way, that one bad phone call could get into my brain and block the story. Maybe because I was going ninety miles an hour twenty-four-seven then and had no time for reflection, just grabbed whatever minutes I could find to write. I am not about to tell you those were good times, but I’m not happy that I can let this kind of toxicity in now that I have space and time to write. And yet I feel guilty for trying to evict it, for the things I’ve done to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Where’s my compassion, where’s the loyalty I owe people, where’s my humanity if I can turn my back and say, “No more. I have to write this book”?
Faulkner was all over this. He said, “The writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one. He has a dream. It anguishes him so much he must get rid of it. He has no peace until then. Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency, security, happiness, all, to get the book written. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the “Ode on a Grecian Urn” is worth any number of old ladies.” (from Writers at Work: The Paris Review Interviews, 1959). And then there’s Rilke who missed his daugther’s wedding to write, demanding what he called an “unconfined solitude . . . a spaciousness that puts no limit on vision”. These are men who can turn away without a second’s thought. But then, they’re men.
I think it’s harder for women although that’s a gross generalization, but I do think we feel responsible for people who call on us, feel responsible for everybody we love, and if we love them, don’t we have to save them? But as writers we love our books, too, they’re our children, if we don’t write them, the stories will never be told. I’m not Rilke, and I wouldn’t have missed that wedding, and I think the world could have missed a poem for her moment of celebration, of connection to another human. It gets harder when the other person isn’t your daughter at her wedding, is somebody who’s just spewing rage and thinks you’re a good target, much harder when you have to slam doors on people you care about to keep the work safe. What do we owe each other and what do we owe the work?
Because tonight I am getting nothing done. The story seems like it has a hard shell around it and my mind keeps sliding off into the pool of venom this woman left in my brain, and into all the guilt and regret that surrounds everything that happened afterward. It’s real life, not something I made up, and I’ll probably use it some day, writers use everything, but right now, I just feel like hell and I can’t write.
Of course, this is a high class problem if there ever was one. I’ll find a way back to the book. There’s no real loss here, nothing that can’t be fixed. But it’s a question that writers have to deal with, you have to be open to people and understanding and listen to all their voices, you have to know and love the world to hold a mirror to it. But the world will destroy your work if you don’t protect it. So where do you draw the line? And how do you deal with the guilt after you’ve drawn the line?
All of which is to say, I did nothing on You Again today. So I’m giving the rest of the night over to carbs and DVD, see if a placid stomach and a diverted mind will finally get me back to where I belong, inside that book. Because a really good book is worth any number of whack jobs who drink and dial.
I think.
Filed in X (Everything Else)
Loading ...
22 Comments to 'Zelda 9: The Outside in Your Head'
On February 21, 2007 at 8:59 pm Christine Deffendall said...
I so totally understand. I have a husband and five children and it seems to be a major triumph if I get a single page written in a week. They aren’t spewing venom on me, but after I put in my eight hours at work, my two-and-a-half year old did pour about thirty ounces of water onto her brother’s bed and floor right when I was trying to help her big sister with her homework as I tried to do the dishes. Even if hubby was able to pitch in more (he is working full time an hour away from home in addition to taking two graduate classes in pursuit of his master’s degree), my concentration is shot.
On February 21, 2007 at 9:06 pm BCB said...
Poor baby.
“…but whoever it is, it breaks that web of reality in your brain, and there you are, shut out from your book, your story spinning away from you.”
Is there something wrong with me that your use of “reality” in that sentence made sense to me?
I’ve spent the evening struggling with whether I should apologize for blasting the hell out of someone who I felt deserved it, not that she deserved it as publicly as I served it up, but still. I was defending a principle and a person I care about and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. But the entire incident caused my brain to be flooded with venom not entirely of my making.
My outside has gotten inside, too. Maybe the planets are out of alignment — I love blaming something that can’t defend itself with logic.
Hope the carbs and DVD work for you. Not sure what it’s going to take for me to get over my guilt and regret for drawing my own line. Because I’ve decided the apology is even less deserved than the verbal beating.
High class problem, indeed. You’re not alone in that take on it.
On February 21, 2007 at 9:29 pm Mary said...
This is probably a dumb question, but who is Theodore Rilke? I know Rainier Maria Rilke and Theodore Roethke. Wikipedia has failed me, and Google pointed me to quotes that were actually taken from R.M. Rilke.
On February 21, 2007 at 9:41 pm JulieB said...
I think it must be the alignment of the stars. Today my friend, who came over to work while I wrote, finally looked at me and said “are you going to get any writing done? Because I’m staying here to try to defend you space to work.” I sighed and admitted that this morning had done me in. Tonight I have a cat on my lap and a dog at my side. I’m going to read my HWSW homework and turn in early. But I think Faulkner was an ass. Of course, I say that having read only one of his stories years ago. But I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to live with that attitude.
On February 21, 2007 at 10:02 pm kat said...
I hate this. Really, really hate.
The good part is that, though my family has the right to demand things of me and I have lost writing time to that, they give back, too. The phone for example. I don’t even look around when the phone rings and I’m writing, because I know my husband will answer it and — unless it’s important or something I can deal with quickly — field it for me. And my mother, who also happens to be my boss, has been known to rewrite my work schedule to make sure I have enough time to write.
Of course, I have to give back (as in last week, which I spent much of crawling around in the ice with a cold so my parents could have a vacation.) But it’s give and take, not just give. With a lot of the writers I know — especially the women — it’s give, give, give, and writing is supposed to take a backseat to everything. Once you get into that situation you’ve got to give yourself permission to be selfish, I think. Because *they’re* being selfish, whether they realize it or not. They’re making assumptions about whose needs take priority. That society tends to back them up is no excuse at all.
On February 22, 2007 at 12:16 am Charlene Teglia said...
Argh. Julia Cameron wrote good stuff about people who try to push their drama on others, and how she pushes it back. I can’t remember offhand if that was in The Artist’s Way, or The Right to Write, but it’s a pretty crucial point for creative people. I hope carb therapy brings you back to Rosemore.
On February 22, 2007 at 12:29 am roben said...
That’s a shame because you were making such great progress. I do understand though, I haven’t been able to write for two days because of my crazy mind. I keep stewing over something I did, so I do understand about an inability to let go of that negative stuff. Protect your work, your privacy, and your sanity, above all else. If the person is a loved one, let them stew for a day or two, and then call and reopen the dialogue.
And yes, BCB, Mercury is retrograde for about another week and has been for a week. Communications are always a mess when Merc does its thing. And don’t I know it. God, I just want to slap myself up the side of the head and no, I hadn’t even had a glass of wine, I was just well, insecure and damn childish. And, I have no way of contacting this person and explaining, other than email, which I’ve tried but of course gotten no response.
So, Jenny take comfort in the DVD and the carbs, at least it wasn’t you who spewed the venom. But, if it’s still bothering you in the morning, maybe you need to pick up the phone and ask for an explanation.
On February 22, 2007 at 3:46 am downundergal said...
Carbs and DVD – see there is an upside to toxic phone calls
On February 22, 2007 at 7:31 am Strop said...
Think about Rosemore. I’ve been rereading Hot Money, and it struck me once again how much everyone loves Quantum, how they’re all desperate to be back there. It’s the family safe place.
On February 22, 2007 at 10:01 am McB said...
Why should you feel guilty? Writing isn’t your hobby, its your living. If you were back teaching again, or working in an office, those outside forces would show more respect. But because you work from your own home they don’t bother. Ditch the guilt – you were WORKING.
On February 22, 2007 at 10:05 am Jenny said...
Ack! I posted too fast and screwed up Rilke’s name. It’s fixed now (well a slapdash fix) but thanks for catching that, Mary. That’s the problem with a “Twelve Days” series, I can’t let anything sit overnight and go back over it the next day. Sorry.
On February 22, 2007 at 11:50 am K.L. said...
I think most of us females were raised on guilt. I know I was. As a motivator it sucks the big one. Even if you do what you should, you feel bad about it. I just finally had enough, and decided not to let other people control me with guilt. If it is my fault, I’ll admit it and apologize. If it is not, I call them on it and push their problem right back at them. Of course it still warps the day and takes a while to clear out the bad feelings. Poor baby Jenny. Some dark chocolate might help.
On February 22, 2007 at 12:50 pm Andi said...
oooh alright, I’ll come screen your calls for the mere pittance of a few more pages to read. I’ll only let the happy drinkers through, just the 2 margarita girls; no 4th glass of bad white wine women.
Friends and I were just talking about how much easier it is to let negativity into your space, sliding down into a bad mood. You feel obligated to listen to someone else’s junk because you keep waiting for the opening to bring in the light, but too often there isn’t the opening. Whoever is sour, doesn’t want the light, that person wants to pull you, until you feel the slide of a bad mood. Conversely, rising to a good mood seems a little more arduous. It is easier to get off the phone when someone calls with good news. There isn’t the guilt of rushing positivity off the line, and while someone else’s joy spreads, it may lift you a bit, it isn’t quite as slippery as the foul mood. Sorry your brain got crowded with crab cakes.
On February 22, 2007 at 3:00 pm Victoria said...
Virgina Wolfe wrote an essay about killing the “Angel in the House”. She wrote that a female writer, not just a successful one, but any writer of the female gender has to be very, very selfish and say “I’m not giving up my space and time. I will not take the least, worst portion. I will not donate my efforts to someone else’s cause. I will not suffer so that others can excell.” If writing is what you have to do to be happy, then cutting idiots out of your life that get in the way of the story only make sense. No one should have to be an Angel in anyone’s house. In her essay, Wolfe said she was constantly killing her inner Angel and even feeling guilty about it at times. However, she didn’t let the guilt stop her from committing murder the next time. Like you, she believed in protecting the work.
Be ruthless. Eat those carbs. Watch that DVD. Tell yourself “The whack job had it coming… they messed with the girls in the basement. Nobody messes with the girls.”
On February 22, 2007 at 3:46 pm e said...
Hope you don’t mind that I passed this post on to Powells.com. I thought it worth recommending!
http://www.powells.com/blog/?p=1861
On February 22, 2007 at 3:52 pm ZaZa said...
Barbara Michaels had a writer beset by family as the, more or less, McGuffin in her Naked Once More. I read this years ago, before I was writing seriously, so it resonated but not the way it does now. /;+) I think of it often.
I’m taking care of a sick mother, who’s problems are only going to get worse. I’ve found myself writing more when she’s particularly bad. It’s my escape. But there are those things, like this phone caller of yours, that just fire all my synapses.
I’m overwhelmed by the jangle and snaping sparks and can’t see anything or think and certainly not write. I used to go out and walk, very fast, passing the slow joggers fast, until I got it out off my system. Now, I can’t do that, so I play solitaire games online. /;+))) Something mindless to get me past it. My version of carbs and a DVD.
On February 22, 2007 at 6:59 pm G and T said...
In my line of work, I field the sporadic irate call and I have gotten better at dealing with the caller, although not the acid aftermath — I have been known to obsess for hours over an unkind or unfair word.
My ground rules are anyone can talk to me, but if they are screaming, that’s the end of the phone call.
I have not yet used it on family or friends, but they have been pretty well behaved so far. Should that change, I am prepared to drop the boom on them.
At home, I screen.
On February 22, 2007 at 7:35 pm Stephenie said...
I read recently that to get work done, you should unplug the phone and the internet and turn off the cell for a set period of time. When that time is done, the world can come back in, but for that time, the world must stay at bay and leave it’s message to voicemail.
On February 23, 2007 at 10:49 am Jenny said...
Thank you, e!
On February 23, 2007 at 4:10 pm Diane (TT) said...
This is the main theme of Dorothy L. Sayers’ Gaudy Night. If I am interpreting her correctly, the resolution she comes to is to form relationships with people who also value your work. Clearly this is not possible with parents and children (though one can, of course, choose not to produce the latter).
I heard a woman minister preach once on the Golden Rule: she thought the important interpretation for men was that they should give as much consideration to others as they give to themselves, but that many women need to remember that they need to give consideration to themselves as well as to others. And in “The Mind of the Maker”, Sayers argues that it is in our work that we most closely approach God, by sharing in the process of creation.
So, I’m sure it’s hard to make the outside go away again – especially the venom (where’s the powdered unicorn’s horn – taken only from unicorns dead of natural causes – when you need it?). But we’re all VERY grateful that you have the vocation to write and wish you all the best filters and scrubbers for getting the outside back out.
On February 24, 2007 at 2:38 pm Rosa said...
I’ve had jobs where what I did was deflect all the unecessary requests so someone else can do their job. It takes energy, it takes skill, and RECOGNIZING that it takes energy and skill is one way to push it out into the land of Not Your Problem – you have a job. Therapist/pincushion/front desk is not your vocation, and the spewer can just keep crank calling til they find someone whose vocation it is.
That said, I keep meeting people who have done Nonviolent Communication courses and they all say that learning to respond well has helped them stop negative or derogatory or violent people from taking up all their psychic energy. I haven’t tried it, so I don’t know, but it makes sense – take away the spewer’s allies in your head and close the encounter in a satisfactory way, and you’ll be done when you hang up instead of still upset later. But it takes a lot of energy and time to learn to do it too.
On April 21, 2007 at 4:19 pm Lambie Pie said...
I really wish I couldn’t relate quite so well to this problem.
Yes, NAKED ONCE MORE, included a writer whose family ate her up.
Sometimes I sit down and write all sorts of horrible things about the person who has wronged me. I write until it’s all gone. After a while I burn or shred or just recycle the paper. It’s okay.
Also, I’ve gotten rid of the TV, the radio, and the phone, and I’m slow to answer the door.
When things are just too awful to think about, I recite the multiplication tables, up as far as I can go, which is about 15 times 15. There is no way to hold onto other thoughts while you are doing the math.