Noise and Sparks 2: You Have to Live

Ruth EJ Booth

“You have to live,” he’d said.

I recall this in the refuge of my study; but, out of the door behind me, waits chaos. Paper and stationery, plates and glass knick-knacks, laundry, books, electrical whoozits and whatsits, all gathered into higgledy heaps and ill-fitted boxstacks; as if freeze-framed in some strangely organized game of Katamari Damacy. I’m moving, and it could be the biggest mistake of my life.

The decision itself was startlingly easy, but recently, it’s gained a foreboding weight. This doesn’t feel right. It seems selfish to leave a life that’s supported me for half a decade for something that might make me happier, but is, unquestionably, much less secure. Even if this works out, it’ll mean less time for my writing—my passion; my cherished bolt-hole when the world gets too, too much. Half the reason I’m writing this column right now is so I don’t have to think about all the clearing and packing still left to do.

So much rests on what’s to come. Yet I’ve no compass for what I’m about to do; no plan should it all fall apart. Frankly, I’m terrified. It’s not a decision I’d have made six years ago. But then, writing SF wasn’t part of the plan either.

Fiction found me when I most needed it, bubbling up under the surface of a bunch of shitty, directionless years, and a chance taken on a local writing class. Its discovery was a revelation, a relief I could feel this exhilarated about something again; regret, for years spent without. So this was how it felt to be truly passionate about something … I threw myself into it, heart and soul. Those moments when you barely feel the keyboard or the pen on paper for what’s flowing through your fingertips, I lived for them like I’d nothing else. When people talk about what makes a writer, that feeling of flow is the closest I’ve found to an answer. And if there’s any great secret to writing, it can only be this—to find that feeling, and chase it for the rest of your days.

But what do you do when that isn’t enough anymore?

*

The realization can be a horrifically lonely one. Oftentimes, you only admit the truth to yourself when it starts affecting your writing, pushing at the edge of thought, intruder in your idyll. This hurts. You have reading, and you have movies, and games, but as a break turns into something longer, when it’s clear it’s not just a case of painting the house for a few weeks, the loss of flow—at best, the sense that writing is tainted—is hard to accept.

If admitting it to yourself is difficult, telling others is much harder, especially other writers. Creative people can be amongst the most supportive, welcoming souls you will ever meet. If you’re lucky, you’ll count some amongst your most treasured friends. To admit that what binds you together doesn’t make you happy anymore can feel tantamount to losing your tribe.

Worst of all is the sense of inadequacy you’re left with. Because … this should be enough, shouldn’t it? The defining feature of an artist is love for their art. And despite the difficulties of creative life, that love should anchor them against any storm. To keep creating in trying circumstances is ennobling—romantic even. A sign of dedication to your art. Right?

So you pretend everything is fine. Hide behind the door, while your problems pile up outside. Bury yourself in so-called dedication to the work. Drive yourself on, even as that dedication becomes a sacrifice, your health and well-being for your fears. It’s a dangerous, and ultimately self-destructive mindset—one that can be astonishingly difficult to get out of.

*

In her recent column on supporting a creative career1, Zen Cho suggests any job you do alongside writing should not only keep you fed, but also stimulated, in terms of your mind and your social life. This makes sense—you can’t write about people if you never spend time with them. Nor can you write if you’re too tired, or too bored to think. Cho admits it’s tricky to find all this in one job, but urges “if you’re serious about writing, it’s worth thinking about how you can arrange your life to support [that].”

But note these aren’t just things you need to write. They’re things you need to be fulfilled as a human being. And I don’t think that’s a coincidence.

Stories mean different things to different people, but at their core, they’re about exploring what it means to be human—how we interact with each other, with ourselves, and the world around us. If we never allow ourselves to be human, how can we write stories that truly resonate with people at this fundamental level?

You have to live.

By the time you read this, I’ll have started a Masters degree in Glasgow. It is, by all accounts, a supremely idiotic move on my part. I’m in my thirties. I don’t have much money. I’m starting a career dependent on international funding and cross-border research just as our government is dissolving its strongest overseas partnership. There’s probably not been a worse time to start an academic career since the advent of World War II.

And I can’t remember the last time I felt this happy about where my life is going.

The odd thing is, I have writing to thank for this decision. Not just for being a bellwether for the issues in my life. If fiction hadn’t come along, perhaps I never would’ve realized I could be happier. The loss that followed now seems like the next step in my relationship with the craft. If discovering your passion for writing is like the first flush of love, then this is the subsequent realization: that love isn’t the answer to your problems, just the start of a bunch of new and much more interesting ones.

It’ll be a challenge. I don’t expect the guilt to just vanish. But when I think about the reasons why I’m doing this—to exercise my brain, be with good people, and work in a vibrant, creative community—I’ll remember why making this decision was so easy. I won’t lose writing—it’ll just be another part of a well-rounded life.

Daniel José Older, in his seminal essay about the myth of writing every day2, states that shame is the biggest enemy of creativity. “Beginning with forgiveness,” he says, “revolutionizes the writing process, returns it being to a journey of creativity rather than an exercise in self-flagellation. I forgive myself for not sitting down to write sooner … for living my life … My body unclenches; a new lightness takes over once that burden has floated off. There is room, now, for story, idea, life.”

So, for now, I’ll start by forgiving myself. I’ll allow myself the need to be more than just a writer. After all, I have to live.

1. Zen Cho – ‘5 Things for Writers to Look for in a Day Job.’ http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/guide-to-literary-agents/5-things-for-writers-to-look-for-in-a-day-job
shortened address: http://tinyurl.com/soi5c

2. Daniel José Older ‘Writing Begins with Forgiveness: Why One of the Most Common Pieces of Writing Advice is Wrong.’ http://sevenscribes.com/writing-begins-with-forgiveness-why-one-of-the-most-common-pieces-of-writing-advice-is-wrong/
shortened address: http://tinyurl.com/soi5b

Ruth EJ Booth is a writer living in Glasgow. In 2015, she won the BSFA Award for Short Fiction. For more of her non-fiction, stories and poetry, head to www.ruthbooth.com