I Don't Always Want to Write - Issue #40
Passion has taken on such an odd meaning in our modern times. It seems to mean enthusiasm or extreme enjoyment or a great desire. But it actually means suffering or something thereabouts.
What did you think the Passion of the Christ meant? It means Christ's suffering.
(So, in one way passion is sort of accurate in reference to my experiences writing. A lot of times I don't want to do it. A lot of times it's a nuisance and a headache. A lot of times, I go back and read what I wrote and think, "Amanda, you stink. You'll never make it."
And I haven't actually made it. My first novel barely made back the money it took to publish it, and now it's out of print. So, there's that. The second novel is being written at a glacial pace, which is to say, quite slowly. I've had many obstacles to it's progress this year--a move, bad health, and a nice, heaping tablespoon of self-doubt.
But, I'm going to finish it, and that's that.)
What people really mean by the word "passion," is inspiration or ease. And yes, both of my novels started like that: a great idea, a massive flow of ideas to paper. But that always ends eventually, and then you have to make yourself finish it.
My parents were sticklers for finishing what is started. I think that's why I don't have a bunch of half-finished creative ideas lying about collecting dust. They simply did not tolerate starting things on a whim and never finishing them. They considered that a character flaw. And I wish more parents believed that.
I wanted to learn how to sew back in the day so that I could make clothes for my doll. So, my mom helped me pick out some fabric and helped me work my way through a simple nightgown pattern. After tearing out my third or fourth or fifth error with a seam ripper, I decided I didn't want to sew as much as I thought I did. I cried and sniveled in dramatic fashion, but Mom didn't give in. She said I had to finish what I started, and then I didn't have to sew any more if I didn't want to. I cried and blubbered my way through that sewing project until the bitter end, and I wore that nightgown to bed for quite a few years.
And now, I am quite a good seamstress. Just last week I made this:
Things that are started should be finished unless they are evil. I made much of the evil of having to practice music on a fine Autumn day as a kid. "So sad," mom and dad would say. "Go practice anyway."
Somehow, a lot of parents think that the arts and other creative endeavors should be started and finished on "passion" alone. But just when things start actually getting passionate (ie. unpleasant or some mental or emotional distress or suffering is involved), they let their kids quit and start the next whim. But the arts and creative endeavors are frequently the best way to love other people. It is our writing which speaks to their hearts, it is our music that moves to tears and happiness, and it is our acrylics on canvas that mesmerize and provoke thought.
Why are these things less important than mathematics? And if you agree that they are not less important, then you should do them the honor of honing your skills in them. And when your children give you the poochy lip about practicing their piano lesson, you shouldn't give in to them.
"So sad. Now go practice."
Because my parents didn't give in to me, my sister-in-law has a beautiful dress to wear that is of higher quality and will last much longer than anything she could buy at the store.
Because of that attitude I learned from my parents, I did not give in to my own petulance today. I didn't want to write a newsletter. But I did anyway. It's rather good, I must say.
And, finally, obstacles or not, I will finish 27.
That's all for now.
Until next time, folks...