On Goals and Writing

Fellow writer and blogger about writing Ashley Cowger has put a shout out for writers to post about their goals here. This post is basically my comment box that spiraled out of control.

First, may I say be careful what goals you set. For instance, you might be granted all the writing time in the world. Then, there you are in a small Ohioan town during winter break, wandering the empty cobblestone streets, you and Your Book, showdown at high noon, time to shoot except both parties glance and shrug, too filled with ennui to pull the trigger.

When not slogging through my book these past weeks I've been slogging through the celebrated Cheever bio/tome from last year, and I'm struck by how he was continually dissatisfied. For us, a regular appearance in The New Yorker=Big Time Success (over 100 stories!), but Cheever spent age 20 to 42--his ENTIRE youth--bemoaning that he didn't have a novel. Then, when he did publish novels, he fretted that the reviews weren't glowing enough, that John Updike's wife was prettier, etc.

So, my first idea is that we have to guard against this idea of the “enough,” as in, no success is ever enough.

But then we also need goals.

I can see some of my “checklist” completed. (an MFA, publication(s) in a national magazine, a McSweeney’s list, short story acceptance from major journal. I’m in a PhD program and about to finish a book.) And yeah, with each of these accomplishments I squealed. The successes meant I wasn’t just some hack, one of those deluded people who fancy themselves a “writer” but go their entire life writing only for themselves (and sadly, for good reason).

As I check more goals off my list, and as I suffer the inevitable disappointments that come with “getting out there,” (for every goal achieved another dream is dashed) I’ve realized the only goal you can cuddle up with at night is to not suck. I want writers who I respect to look at my work and reflect to themselves, “hey, that doesn’t suck.” Granted, this is a lowered expectation from Great American Novelist status, but I have come to accept that only Nabokov is Nabokov. Good American Novelist remains quite the achievement. I also want, ultimately, for readers to pick up my work for the pleasure of it versus "I should try and get through this."

I have new goals. I want to write a fiction novel geared more for a wider audience than literary raves. My one acceptance to the one literary journal is gathering dust and it’s time to get out there again. I would love to be in a Best American Something. I’ve been attending writers’ conferences lately, and want to spend more time behind the podium than doodling on my program in the audience.

And before I get back to work on my latest big goal (Finish and Publish My Nonfiction Book) I will share my practical, superficial and admittedly supercheesy motivator: I visualize my resume.

Waiting

I have this strange knack for actually achieving goals I write down. I find old notebooks filled with lists and I am amazed. See Paris; Play drums in rock band; Ashtanga yoga; and yes, Creative Writing MFA. This makes me believe I need to up the ante and see what happens. I’ll let you know.

While flipping through old notebooks this morning, I found these three New Year’s resolutions from 2007:

1) NO MORE WAITRESSING
2) Write cleaner sentences
3) Yoga/calm/discipline/stop the frazzled grabby hands

This might seem like a modest list but number one felt huge. After twenty years of restaurant work I wondered if I would ever get out. I couldn’t see it.

On my last visit to Durham, North Carolina, (where I lived and waited tables for 19 of those 20 years) a former industry cohort handed me a copy of Waiter Rant. (One of those blogs turned book deals Laurie posted about yesterday.) My friend had been given the book for Christmas, one of those presents people receive because relatives have confused “previous lives that incurred lasting psychological damage” with “interests.”

“It hasn’t been enough time yet. I can’t read this,” my friend said. She passed the book, eyes averted, as if handing off a removed appendix. She’s less than a year out. I am almost three.

I took the book to be polite but haven’t cracked the spine. I lived Waiter Rant. I am Waiter Rant. No thank you. On the back cover The Waiter describes entering his seventh year. HA. I thought. Boo freaking hoo hoo hoo. I remember that phase. I even remember when I thought I was doing the job so I could write about the experience. Try twenty mofo. Try twenty. Okay, I admit it; I’m mad that wasn’t my book deal. And I'm super jealous Anthony Bourdain wrote a blurb.

At least I’m out. No faking this time. I’m teaching and maybe I made $8,750 last year but the corner is turned. I’m done put a fork in it.

As for cleaner sentences, I am pleased to report a diminished number of prepositional phrases and unnecessary adverbs.

I still wring my hands though. I suspect I lack proper kissing.

2009:

1) PROPER KISSING
2) FAMOUS WRITER