The Blues

It’s a Mug’s Game

On August 22, 2009, in Writing, by Rosie

So many self-help and motivational books about writing are truly inspirational. They provide an assortment of ideas to generate musing, wonderful mood altering exercises to incite the flow of words, and they glow with the theory of writing craft – of structure, technique, practise, non-conjugal verbs – which, I think, means no sex in prison during writing – and correct posture.

Reading these books makes one forget the loneliness of the process.

Lately, I feel this aloneness.

I am in the extremely fortunate position of having a group of talented and generous writers inside the internet cabling of this laptop. These friends provide an ear when you’re downhearted, a pep talk when a piece is rejected and a (harsh) slap to the cheek when you’re channeling an Inner Diva. They are irreplaceable. They make the writing worthwhile and sometimes provide typo-spotting, constructive criticism or brainstorming.

So, if I’m in this privileged spot where I can email or MSN and – shazammmm – a writing friend can lend a hand, why am I bemoaning about feeling insular? One answer is that I am a diva and a self-absorbed melodramatist. The better option is that at the end of the day – with or without the support of mates and these amazing, inspired souls – I have to write the words. I have to put the stories out there, face rejection, self-publish in a haze of anxiety and uncertainty, and war with my mind about whether this is what I should be doing.

But thank God for like-minded people. I write this post today as a permanent reminder of two things written by a fellow online journal-keeper – a younger, very wise woman who I will not credit, because she adores her anonymity:

Writing is a privilege – to have the resources available is something not all communities have, and it’s a factor I sometimes take for granted.
When (or if) one reading audience departs (as in the closure of fan fiction for a defunct show) another may arrive.

We just never know until we do it.

Recently, I shared with an American friend the concept of the Australianism: ‘mugs’ – as in an affectionate term for a drongo, a nong, a ‘silly’. I said ‘writing is a mug’s game’, but I am incorrect on two accounts:

writing may be lonely at times, but it isn’t for mugs. It’s a creative outlet, something concrete that can offset periods of mental wasting. Wanting. Needing.
writing is not a game, it’s an ongoing process. There’s no winner – you’re not the WINNER if you’re published or if you make more money than sense. You don’t lose if your work is rejected from now until you’re 82. The great loss comes having never experienced the thrill of imagining, and the biggest win is if you can close your eyes in the last moments on earth and say I may never have been published, but at least part of my soul is on paper, somewhere . . .

er, perhaps the slush pile?

Now that’s where the mugs lurk before they grow sparkly fangs of publication!