I’ve spent most of the last year thinking constantly about writing. I’m not sure why. I guess because I spent a lot of money figuring out how to do it right, which I guess is where I’m at now, figured-up. But the things I’m supposed to write about don’t always interest me or I don’t know what interests me or I don’t know how to do what it is I’m supposed to know how to do. I’m getting tired of writing about writing and reading about writing. Craft is cool, but even that wears me out for a time.
I’m addicted to the HBO series The Wire. There’s this scene where Baltimore Police Lieutenant Cedric Daniels is arguing with his wife because instead of retiring from his job he takes on a new post.
Daniels: “I love the job, Marla. I can’t help it.”
Marla: “The job doesn’t love you.”
How fitting. I love writing, but it’s not like writing loves me. I’m always fighting it.
Stories seem like simple little creatures, but really they’re like looking at a mountain from far away. I feel close to the mountain because of its size, but the closer I move to it, the longer it takes to arrive at the base and the farther away it begins to feel.
At some point, when I think I’ve arrived, the mountain has blocked the sun and I’m moving through the darkness.
I’m always moving through the darkness and I can’t see my destination. I don’t know when or if I’ll actually arrive.