I pace down the 53rd-3rd platform between the glossy wall of subway ads and matte black painted sheet metal waiting for the train and reading the Story of the Lost Child. Half way down page 226, I start to think about my own book. I feel a flutter in my stomach. I don’t know if it’s the presiding delusion of inevitable success or the impending doom of ultimate meaninglessness. I relax my jaw, lower my eyebrows and think: if/when I publish my current book, it will be the bravest thing I’ve ever done. And no, not because it’s about a girl whose adolescence resembles mine insofar as naked pictures of her circulate throughout her high school. Writing this book is brave because my brain is always coming up with very good reasons not to write:
I’m a slow writer.
I still don’t write enough.
Some of my sentences are probably overworked.
The other sentences probably lack significant details.
I can’t keep everything straight in my head.
I haven’t published any short stories.
I don’t know my own blind spots.
It must be shared one day.
I’m afraid it will be shared with someone who will make me want to never share it with anyone.
I am a prolific artist. But am I a prolific writer?
If/when it is published, it still may not succeed.
I’ll never be as good as Thomas Pynchon.
Men won’t respect me.
Some women won’t respect me, too.
Other people are always throwing other opportunities at me to do other things.
Readers will not realize every sentence I wrote and then kept was a choice.
I am genuinely doing the best I can do but what if the best I can do still isn’t good enough?
What if people think this is all I can do?
I’ll show them wrong.
Or will I?
People will mistake the simplicity of reading for ease of achieving. It’s an absurd fear. People must know how hard it is to create something simple. [The excellence of a dish is measured by its simplicity. -Chef’s Table]
Am I delusional or confident or is confidence delusion?
Without a belief in my radical success (aka delusion) I will never accomplish anything.
I spend all time this debating with myself: are you talented? are you delusional? are you lazy? are you working on the wrong thing? I fight myself all the time in order to write. Even though I am slow. Even though I won’t get as much done as I thought. Even though someone just showed me a new book by an author who is writing like I do. I will finish this book. And that’s why it is brave. That’s why it will be my greatest accomplishment to date. Or it won’t. But I can’t keep thinking about that. The E train comes. I get on and, with nothing else worth saying, get back to reading the book that makes me think about my writing most.