Full Disclosure

Remember back in January when I announced that I had finished my book on family liturgy? That was true. It was also true that the manuscript had been turned over to some folks for "editorial comment" and that a Writer Friend had offered to read it and pass it on (should it so merit) to his agent.

But in the weeks since the feedback has been collected I have been talking about working on it more than actually working on it. I've gone beyond even my considerable powers of procrastination to not work on it. Since Writer Friend has been promised a manuscript by the time he returns from a book tour (at the end of the month) I have to deliver. I'm not a lying liar.

Every day, for weeks, I've risen with the intention of working on it and every day I don't.

Today was no different. I took my morning coffee out in the kitchen garden. The air was cool and vernal, the light was dappled. It was a perfect, fresh-start sort of morning. Well-rested, clear-headed and properly caffinated I asked myself, somewhat boldly, "Self, what is the hold-up?" Myself is not used to such direct confrontation and was caught off-guard by the frankness of the query. But after a few nonplussed moments, Myself answered:

"I'm tired of this book. After 10 years I'm ready to send it off to its fate. I don't want to work on it anymore".

Those of you with more experience at the writing thing might well have answered Myself with, "Well, so then, you're done. Be done". Ah, but you see, I can't do that. Because it was a work-in-progress over a 10 year period, the voice in the book changes. And the difference in that voice between the early stuff and the latter stuff is glaring. GLARING. It has to be fixed. And sure, maybe it could be fixed in editing, assuming that it was accepted for publication. But I think it is so glaring a problem that it could adversely affect the publication odds.

The good news is that, in taking time to think about it, I also realized how to fix it, which was most of the battle. Now it's just taking the time.

As long as I'm confessing let's add that I'm a freaking hypocrite. I stand over The Child like a fishwife, hectoring her about school work when she probably got the procrastination gene from me. Of course, I have to hector her but it's that whole "do as I say, not as I do" thing. I'm not exactly credible on this point. Not that she knows this. She has no idea. Which is what makes it so hypocritical.

Enough. Time to look to my Muse and ask, "What Would Jane Austen Do?" She'd stop bitching, belly up to her writing desk and start writing, that's what. She sure as shootin' wouldn't fire up a game of "Age of Mythology".

Ta Da!

Today I fooled around with html for the first time. The Spouse had to show me how to do it and it was, like so many other instructional moments in my life, fairly meaningless. To whit, I am one of those people who doesn't learn from explanation. I have to do it to get it, which has resulted in something of a magpie approach to learning. I pick up the pretty, shiny bits that I need and leave the rest, very often failing to fully comprehend the beauty, complexity or subtlty of a subject. This is true even of those subjects which interest me. And while I have sometimes arrived at a deeper understanding of a subject the truth is I'm pretty much of an academic dillitante. But getting back to the point, I'm married to a geek and don't need to understand html, like, ever.

I got what I wanted, which is to edit the "links" in my sidebar so I can showcase the other blogs I read in case you want to look at them, too. Such a simple little thing and yet it took me down quite a path:

It started simply, benignly enough. What is required to make it onto my list? The Spouse found out the hard way. He has a blog but I didn't list it, which I'm sure gave him a boo boo face. But while he has a blog, he rarely posts. And I don't see the point of a blog that isn't fairly current. Another rule that emerged is that I didn't link to some of the younger bloggers I know because I feel protective of them.

I have been thinking for weeks about adding a list of links to my blog. I knew which ones I would include. They are all, in my opinion, funny and/or well-written and/or insightful. I check them every day. I talk about them to others. So why, when faced with the template screen did I suddenly start feeling angst? Was it the worry that just because I like them doesn't mean you will? What difference does that make? Say it ain't so, that here I am, 48 years old and still prone to worrying about what other people think of me? Ei yi yi. And so I say to you, I read these blogs not because they are pure and perfect but because each one in it's own way does something for me. So there. Read 'em or not. I don't care.

But here's the thing, the true source of the angst was in an even more ridiculous place. You want to know why I really was hesitating? That's right! Because what if you read the other blogs and think, "Holy MOG, where has this magnificent piece of literature been all my life?" Bottom line: I'm petty and selfish and insecure and I want everyone to like me best. Competitiveness masquerading as insecurity. So is there a Pulitzer for Blogging? If I read a really good book I would recommend it to you. I tell everyone I know to watch "Gilmore girls". Why wouldn't I recommend a blog? Over myself I will now be getting.

Such small things can lead you down a path of self-discovery. Ok, not really self-discovery because I've known about that competitive/insecure thing for a while now. But it did get me thinking once again about the whole process of writing and about the road blocks I set up for myself. Why has it taken me 10 years to finish the liturgy book? Is it the demands of motherhood and activism? No. Is it writer's block, a lack of research or material? No. Bottom line, it is the fear that no one will be interested in what I've written because someone else has done or will do it better. Deep in my heart still lurks the notion that there can only be one definitive book on any particular topic and since surely it has been written there isn't any point to mine.

The lameness of this mode of thought should be apparent. What if Evelyn Waugh had thought that about Charles Dickens or Anne Tyler about Jane Austen. OnceWar and Peace got written did that mean that no one else could ever again tackle that subject? Isn't that really the amazing thing about literature and in fact all creative endeavor? There isn't one great painting or great book, great album or great movie. Further, you have AFI lists and the NY Times Best Sellers and Rolling Stone magazine's "100 Albums of All Time", you have great libraries and museums housing amazing works of art and while the word "masterpiece" is bandied about often, there is still room for subjective opinion. Everyone may agree objectively that "Mona Lisa" is a masterpiece. Doesn't mean everyone would actully hang it in their home.

Which is all to say that my greatest demon from a creative point of view is not wanting to do something unless I can do it superlatively. Which is a really ridiculous way to live.