21-1-21
At the moment I feel as if writing is something I can’t or won’t be able to do again. I know I’ve felt this a thousand times over, but it seems that each time I feel it, it seems more pertinent – more real; as if the inevitable is solidifying into an absolute truth, like a chunk of old play dough left in the sun, unmoldable, unchangeable, and quietly crumbling away.
I’m scared to start writing – all of the time. I guess, in part, to find out if any of this were true. Absurd really as four weeks ago, in one brief sitting, I wrote the best story I have ever written – one that was not just clear, concise, and impactful, but the process was measured, controlled, technical, and really enjoyable. I never felt as good finishing a story as I did at the end of ‘Harrold’.
Yet four weeks later, the idea of opening a blank page scares me to death. It’s no different to calling back Cinthia, or any of the girls I had a great time with, and allowing something good to seed, sprout, and flower. To just let it do so, naturally.
Part of me knows that to really write – to write something that swallows the reader up – I have to commit and that means giving up control – for however long the process may be. And everything right now is somewhat controlled. Work is plentiful. Money is plentiful. Emotional stability is plentiful. And the rational part of my brain – the father especially – says, being in this state is safe. We have to keep a roof over our heads. We have to keep food in the fridge. We have to have savings. We have to have financial stretching room. We can’t fuck up.
So have I grown to look at writing as I have drugs? Something that will undeniably whip me into a frenzy of reckless abandon? Have I made that direct association? It’s not true, if this is the case.
A month ago, you sat down unemotionally and did your best writing. The only story you were actually proud of – the only one that, when passing it on for someone to read, you weren’t swept up by feelings of shame. It was the only story (bar one paragraph admittedly) that was written right, especially the ending.
So why the aversion to writing?
I would love to go back and re-write everything I had written from A Rising Fall onwards. I look back at how I wrote and I get shivers of disgust. And I could re-write them, and feel better today, but what good would that be? In ten years I’ll look back and want to re-write them again, because I will have changed, my writing will have changed, my tone will have changed, and I will tell myself that I can see those ideas with better clarity. But that will happen every ten years. It’s not the clarity, voice, vocabulary, or tone that makes any difference, there will always be an underlying feeling (and it is physiological too), that I could say better what I said in the past. How is that any different to my brain tormenting me with dumb shit I said when I was 12 or 17 or 27, and trying to give the better come back in my head whilst scrubbing my hair in the shower? The underlying issue is not the story, the writing, or how it was told – at that time ! – the underlying issue is a complete absence of self esteem (which ironically is probably why I write in the first place).
So maybe this is not a note to Cian now, this is a note to you – Cian – five years from now.
“Stopping sifting through your fucking past and I promise you, I’ll stop sifting through mine.”
Those first novels were written by a young man with no formal training, teaching, or experience, trying to figure out an artform alone. And for his own enjoyment and need. It was never about being a writer or writing for people. It was always this damn itch in my head that needed my head to be torn open, just to get at to scratch. Pandora’s box. But those books are an evaluation of Cian – then. For that reason alone I shouldn’t be delving in the past. I was a different person back then, and I was learning a craft without any guidance – I don’t even bloody read, so there is no author’s voice that I can emulate, echo, or follow. I’m learning to talk in a cave by myself. What creates the frustration and shame then, is knowing that there is a young, immature, impulsive and pretty unstructured version of myself still wandering around out there – still making first impressions. This is the part that is vexing. Every book creates this parallel universe, where I someone reads just one thing I have written, they’ll have a perspective of Cian (and his story telling) that is totally askew from past or proceeding works. Having no desire to sit down and repeat on type of story for my career (not wanting to paint a fruit bowl for 50 years), this will always be my predicament. Every story I write is a reflection of myself now, at this point. And telling the story I want to tell right now. And so the writing will be indicative of how I am communicating – with myself and the world around me – at that given moment. And yeah, the first 9 novels especially, were rushed. They were manic. They were unstructured. They were laden with errors. Because so was I. Were it a painting, they could be my happy mistakes. Clumps of paint that, once again, were indicative of Cian – AT THAT TIME.
So there is no point whatsoever, not only in going back to re-write my first ‘learning’ pieces, but going back at all, and judging unconvincingly.
The fact is, Harrold was an evolution. It was a maturity. C. Sean McGee grew up. AM I scared then that, like sparring, it was just a one off; a singular lucky moment where all the stars aligned in my head, life, immune system, and I was capable – in that exact moment – of being patient, calm, relaxed, and flow like water taking every right step from beginning to end? And just like how – every now and then – I sparred with grace, technique, and joy, it was never an assurity that I would always spar that way, and that because of my mind, more often my body was rigid, my thoughts were heavy, my legs were heavy, and I sparred forcefully, brutish, fearful, and ugly; just as I have written time and time again.
Am I thinking I have to be impassioned? That I have to be swept up by the tidal wave of inspiration to be able to write – and more so, to map out a story that will be meaningful for the person who reads it? Because this isn’t true. We weren’t swept away when we wrote Harrold. We felt no different than we do now. IN fact, this, more than anything, meant that what we wrote was solely down to our skill. Just as we had sparred with poise and technique (enjoying the process), so too with Harrold, did we go into the writing without that all encompassing wave of inspiration, and instead, we told a story – with poise and technique.
We don’t have to be inspired.
We need only sit down to write.
