Focus, Focus

I was about to start writing some rambling contemplative thing about letting go--of ideas, people, beliefs, mindsets--and why it is so difficult. But I fear I'm edging in some of these near diary entry territory, which is not a bad thing (if I weren't so damn tired all the time I'd do that too) but not what I set out to do. Am I wrong in continually trying to cut myself off when I sense this veering? Is all writing important writing if you're trying to write: to keep the muscles warm and active? Or should I be reining in my late night dorm conversation type monologues and giving myself exercises, pushing ahead on assignments or pitches or sketches or notes for future projects?

I'm having a little existential crisis, in part, I think, because I'm having trouble with something I'm working on. It's fiction, and although I always find myself irritated when people make assumptions that nonfiction writers can't write fiction (thus, becoming fiction writers too, I guess), I must also admit that I always have trouble writing fiction, and in the very same way, regardless of the specific nature of the project. I feel as though I can come up with believable engaging characters, and I can write settings and dialogue quite well, thank you very much. I even feel as though I can maintain my voice--or achieve a distinct one that suits the purpose, which some people consider the hardest part of the game.

It's plot, plot that's the problem. I come up with all of the props, and they're good props, and then I just don't know what to do to them to get them to an ending. This always leads me to the same dismaying thought: I am not actually creative. I know I can write. I've always known that, somehow--does that sound vain? There are so many things I can't do, and know I can't do, that I will allow myself that vanity, I guess. But if I can't originate a story, come up with the "what happens" out of nothing, from my own mind, then what am I? A describer, an observer, a commentator, even, but not a storyteller--or not one of stories that haven't actually happened, which is--although the end results shouldn't indicate it--different.

Although I know, objectively, that the ability to create with words is a real worthwhile talent, when I produce an essay, or writing of any kind that expresses what I want it to in eloquent or surprising ways, I feel on some level that I am generating a product thanks to my known ability. Even when what I have written stems from that "channeling" quality that comes only sometimes, I never feel it has the mysterious origins and combustion spark of real art. It does not seem the same to me as starting with nothing--a blank page, empty screen, white canvas, a treble clef--and ending up with something huge that nobody else in the history of the universe could ever have made in just the same way. It doesn't feel like magic. Now I know too that this both denigrates what is most important to me and in a way detracts from the excruciating work that goes into making art, and I also know that nonfiction writing is art equal to any other kind of art and that fiction writing requires just as much if not more work. It is not borne of fairy dust. I'm just telling you how I feel, along with what I know.

And this is why I will keep trying. Some part of me believes I can tell stories--knows I do so sometimes already in certain ways--or I wouldn't keep on trying. I hope.