Writing

My chief problem with writing is that I’m lazy, indiscriminately, fantastically, lazy. I’m always “working” on things. The term work is not in quotes accidentally. After I’ve been working on something for a while, I’ll want it be done, and so I’ll stop working on it, or, on the off chanc

e that I finish it, I’ll ignore all of the obvious errors in logic or continuity in favor of calling it done.

  I believe the agreed upon answer is no, though I think everyone would be a whole hell of a lot happier if they could just answer yes. Of course, I answer yes all the time, and then go back and look at something I’ve written, realizing immediately that the proper answer was no. I suppose the object lesson is that the right answer to most questions in life is no. It’s safer that way.

Conclusion: Maybe I just need to write very short stories, set very modest goals.

Example:

I want to write a story about a dog.

Story:
The dog had brown fur. He liked to play tug of war. The dog was happy. He liked to sleep.

Am I done writing a story about a dog? I think so. I think the story is complete. Sure you could add some portions about the light falling diagonally through the panes of dirty windows, or give the dog some texture by providing some information about the dog’s owners etc, but then I think you’re just wandering down a labyrinth. If no story is ever truly done then every story should go on for thousands and thousands of pages. I think this is what Robert Musil was attempting in The Man Without Qualities. Or perhaps, if every story is only complete when it’s kept on a small scale, every story should be only one sentence.

Example:

The day that she died was a good one for reasons I can’t get into right now.

Okay, so we have a death, a character responding to the death in an interesting manner and then forestalling any future communication about the death. I’m happy.

Example:

He was delighted the first time one of his sculptures came to life, though, by Autumn, he’d concluded that they were as drab as everyone else he knew.

Example:

That was the summer all the adults turned into fish and swam upriver.

Example:

In September, all the leaves turned golden, and we smoked pipes on covered porches, overlooking tiny square yards, reminiscing on what failures we’d all become.

Example:

It was less a matter of me shooting the bird than of a profound failure of imagination on his part, taking the bullet when he could soar to the heavens.