Currently reading: Fan Notes by Frederick Exley, My Life by Golda Meir

The story, the journey is long, and it is a pain in the ass.

No, no, mainly me, I, Amy, is a pain in the ass. Amy, codependent, resident over thinker, town bawler, hysterical laughing girl with a great comeback, I can be a pain in the ass.

But I wouldn’t have me any other way.

Today it was time to get back to the page again.  I was inspired last night by a documentary about John Irving, who seemed to make it all look so easy.  I couldn’t get over it.  This man, thoughtfully puttering around his beautiful house by the river, filled with huge trees. A trusty and loyal dog by his side, an even more trustworthy and loyal wife as well, just existing with his routines and his formats.

To me it seemed like absolute paradise.

This man, this John Irving, when caught with inspiration for his stories, treats it as reality immediately.  It is like he receives his orders from headquarters.  Here, go investigate the red light district halfway across the world.  Yup, he nods, he packs a suitcase, grabs the trustworthy wife who has no idea yet of what he is up to, and heads off.

Me, my wings are still wet, my face still damp with tears.  I am still in the newness of it all.  Too easily swept away by waves of emotion and heartbreak and extreme highs and lows.

But yes, I could comfort myself in saying that I am writing about real people who never remain still for you. Real people aren’t your creation. They have minds and wills of their own whether you want them to or not.  And they will not be controlled nor should they be.

And real people can die, and you can never resurrect them.  Once their story is over, it is over.  No sequel, no prequel, just gone. The end.  The original Monkee, Peter Tork, passed away the other day.  He never shared his full story, his full life in autobiography form like the others did.  His entire story will remain with him, unless someone chooses to piece together everything and write a meaningful biography.  His voice, however, will not be there anymore to lend it any credibility.  It is left to the family and friends to know for sure.

But I digress…

John Irving though, his fictional work,  he looks at it like wrestling.  Constant practicing of repetitive movements to hone your strength and discover your agility.  Boring to people watching but at the time of performance, that big moment, absolutely exhilarating.

He is correct though, much of the heavy lifting is left to the writer alone.  Whether that be staring out of windows on million dollar properties, or using a bed as a chair, typing at  a too low end table.

It is the journey, the love of the process that counts.  Not the big game, not the end result, but the day to day repetitive motion of pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard.  It is the endless cups of coffee, or that special high when you describe something just right.  The accolades, the hooking you up to a microphone and reading excerpts from the book, that is just, well, I don’t know if you would even call that icing on the cake.  Perhaps just presentation.  The offering to the world.  The giving away of what you worked to build, and leaving it all to the mercy of your reader.  Then coming home, kicking off your shoes, putting on your glasses, and getting back to work again.

I am still learning at the feet of many great writers and I suspect I always will be.  It is an honor being a part of this world, but a continuing process of self esteem building is essential.  You must grow to be successful in this writing business.  Too many authors veer off the road to self doubt, to addictions, to vices.  Staying the course in this business is tantamount.

John Irving walks his dog, works out, and makes pizza decorating his speech with little French or Italian phrases. He serves the pizza haphazardly off his no doubt thoroughly scrubbed kitchen counters.  No plates!!!! I marvel at how clean they must be to eat off of it.  He knows his shit.

A good mentor to follow behind.