You Might be a writer if...pain is inevitable

It's been a while since I've gotten to reflect on the ins and outs of writerdom, mostly because I've been hanging on by the skin of my teeth in my MFA program. There are just not enough hours in the day.

A few emails ago, however, one of my advisors put me onto a short tome written by a fellow traveler in the writing lane,  Haruki Murakami's  What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.

I am a dedicated runner, which this advisor knows as we've crossed paths in the wee hours of the morn running during residencies. Although the reading tower is approaching critical heights in my office, I got the book (downloaded it to my Kindle, actually, thus not adding to the teetering tower).

Murakami hooked me right away with these words--"Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional."

It is?

It is.

In this life, if you live it even a little, pain is inevitable. Doesn't matter if you're running, swimming, have kids, are married, or, god forbid, decide to try art for a living. Pain is inevitable.

That's a liberating thought. I'm not alone. Everybody suffers! Don't get me wrong, I'm so not taking joy in somebody else's pain. Far from it. I'm just relieved that, well, the pain thing, it's...dare I say it, normal.

Yippee! I'm normal! (Have I been waiting an eternity to say that).

Suffering however...

Well, I can either fall into it, or accept the pain and move through it.

Which gets back to the running thing. In running, at least, the longer I work through the pain, the greater the reward when I finish. All I need to do is juxtapose my running attitude to my writing. There will be pain. There is pain. What I do with it, that's the true test.

You Might be an Writer If...

I have often heard it said that the mark of a true artist is his/her level of suffering. I scoffed. Artists...suffering for their work?...Come on. They paint. Or write. Or draw. Act. But suffer? Isn't that being a little melodramatic?

Oh, ye of little faith.

You might be a writer if...the act of writing causes you pain. Physical or mental. Probably both.

This is a rather recent revelation of mine. It's all come about due to my present work-in-progress, Pelorus Jack. It's a longer piece, just over 400 manuscript pages. It makes my dissertation - at 250 pages - feel like a novella.

I suppose working on a larger project is likely to bring out the worst characteristics in any human being regardless of job description. But pain?

Oh, yes, pain.

I'd like to blame it on the imminent approach of 40, only two weeks away, but I don't think it's an age thing. I think it's an art thing.

I'd noticed lately that I'd begun referring to my days spent revising as a marathon. That's what it feels like. Granted, I don't leave my desk but for the occasional bathroom break or to ferret around for some sort of food to sustain me, but I feel as weathered by the end of the day as if I'd run a good 26 miles. I wouldn't call this pain. It's more discomfort, mental exhaustion.

Pain, however, came last week. Real, physical pain. When I played violin - which I did semi-professionally for a number of years - I managed to give my tendinitis in my upper right shoulder. It's all that bowing. Well, I hadn't experienced that pain since I stopped teaching and playing about 9 years ago. Yet, last week, it was back. Cause? Sitting at my desk for umpteen hours, straight back, arms outstretched, typing like my life depends on it. This has got to be some sort of new record. I've actually managed to injure myself without leaving the comforts of my desk.

I'm not alone, though. And I derive comfort from that. Renoir, who painted well into his 80s or 90s, developed arthritis so badly, he could barely hold a brush anymore. Okay, I'm not Renoir, not even close, but does the fact that I've managed to injure myself via my art mean I'm getting close??

As for the mental anguish writing causes, my last piece, Dragon Wishes pushed that pain to its critical point. The story is emotionally about losing someone beloved, working through the pain, and learning how to open up and love again and be loved. When my character hits rock bottom and has to either open herself up or fall into the blackness of despair, I was right there with her falling through that raw pain. I began to have a sort of emotional Pavlovian response when I got even close to editing or revising that section of the piece. I got depressed. Moody. My kids took off for the neighbors. My husband bought chocolate. It wasn't pretty. It broke my heart and mended it a million times over, but it was what had to be done. I suffered.

In all honesty, it's no wonder so many artists - writers, painters, actors - "experiment" with medication. I'm not headed down that road - unless you count copius amoutns of chocolate - but my mind and body have definitely suffered for my art.

Does that make me good....yet???