Last month, I listened to Sarah Hepola reading her Slate article on NPR and it struck a chord with me. The article was about her shutting down her blog so that she could dedicate more of her time to other writing. I think a lot of writers start a blog as a way to hone their writing, only to find that the blog becomes consuming to the degree that it actually becomes their writing and they stop working so much on other things. Part of me would argue that this shouldn't necessarily be construed as such a bad thing. Part of me would say, why shouldn't the blog be just as valid a form of writing as, say, a novel or magazine article. I do feel that there are some blogs out their that could, in fact, be termed 'literary,' and which transcend the stigma of 'online journal.' And if you make money doing it, all the better.

Then there is the other part of me that wakes up some mornings and realizes that the novel I started about six months ago has gone untouched for three weeks and there is still no end in site and, you know, what the fuck am I doing? Well, like Hepola, one thing I am doing more of is blogging . . . go figure.

The dangerous thing about blogging when you're a writer is the rush of satisfaction you get from finishing something, and then immediately publishing it. I think this stems from a fact about writing that many writers, including me, don't like to admit: We don't actually like to write.

I should probably explain what I mean by this. It sounds strange, doesn't it? Shameful, perhaps? If you don't like to write, why do you do it? How can you even call yourself a writer in the first place?

Good questions, and they feed on the most basic fear of any writer: What if I am not actually a writer? What if I am an imposter? From various articles and books I've read on the subject, I know that even the most successful writers continue to ask themselves these things, even after publishing several works. They continue to wonder if their next novel, story, or poem will be the one where everyone finds out the truth: they are not writers, after all.

I think these questions plague writers because of how our culture uses language to describe activities that we enjoy doing. Bare with me while I work through this . . . I'm kind of fascinated by how language implies meaning, which I know can be kind of tedious for others . . .

We will say, "I like doing X." Which can be taken to mean, "I derive pleasure from the act of doing X, which is the reason I do it." Certainly, for many activities, this makes a lot of sense. Some people enjoy surfing. Which is to say, they derive pleasure from the act of doing it and, therefore, they do it. Likewise, some people enjoy the act of playing music. They derive pleasure from those moments in which music is being made by themselves, or with others, such as when playing in a band. People might talk about both of these activities in retrospect by saying something to the effect of: "I really enjoyed playing music with my band yesterday." Or: "I really enjoyed surfing yesterday." Meaning: "This thing I did was enjoyed at the time I was doing it. I remember that enjoyment and therefore I will aim to do it again." What they like about the activity is not having done it, but rather the actual doing of it.

Writing is not like that, at least not for me, and yet I tend to use the same language to describe it. When I'm at some social event and somebody asks me what I do, I will often respond first by saying I'm a Web developer (since this is how I make money and, therefore, seems more "practical"). Then I might add: "But I also like to write." Since I don't actually make a living writing yet, this is a socially-accepted way for me to describe something I do, while also justifying the act through the assertion that I like to do it. But every time I say it, I cringe because it rings false to me. I mean, it's not completely a lie, but it's not completely honest, either.

What I really want to say is this: "I like having written. And I continue to write because I feel compelled to do it. Because if I did not do it, I would probably drink too much, go crazy, or commit suicide, or all three. Which is funny because sometimes the act of writing also makes me drink too much, feel crazy, and instills in me a terrible urge to jump out of my fifth-story apartment window."

But that probably wouldn't go over too well at cocktail parties, would it? I would surely receive a blank stare, to which I might have to laugh uncomfortably and say something like: "I mean, not funny in a ha-ha way. More of an ironic sort of funny, you know?"

I'm sure some people out there enjoy the craft of writing, the process of it. They like sitting at their desk, alone with their materials. They may like the physical qualities of those materials, whatever they are: the feel of the pen in hand, the weight of a fresh piece of paper, the hum of the typewriter or the sexiness of a new laptop computer. They might get a rush of excitement simply from the idea, the promise of it all. And if that's you, then I say great! I don't mean to discredit you. In fact, I admire and envy you. Granted, I think you are most certainly a masochist, but even in this I'm green. I want to know that kind of devotion, even if it is self-destructive.

But let it be known: this is not me. I do not care for the materials. They only remind me what writing is: a difficult, lonely process which makes you feel entirely inadequate because of how confined you are by language. Indeed, the act of writing involves trying to piece together words to describe thoughts, concepts, feelings, and emotions. At best, your efforts will only symbolize the things you want to describe. They will never be the thing itself. Which means the whole impossible endeavor is, in its very nature, flawed, full of uncertainty and doubt.

Sounds pretty fun doesn't it? Wondering where to sign up? If the whole thing is shit, you might wonder, why the hell do it?

Ah-ha. Here's what I'm getting at: The pleasure for me is not in the craft, it is in the end result. And when that end result, however flawed and inadequate, comes close to touching upon the initial intuition that sparked it, well, there's not much that compares to that feeling. Indeed, I'd go so far as to say there is nothing that compares to it. It's a high - a tremendous, though fleeting, sense of satisfaction.

Which probably means most writers spend ninety-five percent of their time dissatisfied, desperately trying to reproduce that high.

Which brings me back to blogs. I think posting to a blog is alluring for some writers because it allows them to achieve a finished product quicker and more frequently, which, in turn, leads to a more frequent sense of reward and pleasure. To be blunt, it satisfies a fix. It has all the same characteristics of a fix: momentary euphoria, a sense of contentedness and well-being, and a deferment of all ailments. It's also something of a 'social' activity, the way other drugs might be, and in a way that most fiction writing is not. Unfortunately, it also makes the glaring reality of what you didn't accomplish all the more painful when you wake up the next morning.

For any addict, the first step to recovery is recognizing and admitting you have a problem. While I think that the blog is slowly developing into it's own stylistic form, the fact remains that I would like to finish at least one novel in my lifetime and posting to a blog is not going to get me there. Ideally, I'd like to find a way to integrate the two mediums, but there seems to be a lot of distance between them at the moment, which is probably a topic for another post.

Sarah Hepola dealt with the problem of not writing by halting her blog. This is what worked for her. While I recognize a similar problem and sympathize with the way she chose to deal with it, I don't think I'll ever reach that same resolution. I am, after all, a geek in addition to a writer. I have a fascination with the Internet and all the online technologies that go along with it. So, for me, my blog is not only 'online writing forum,' but also an 'online technology training ground.' I don't think putting a halt to the blog altogether will increase my writing productivity, although I do think it's important to recognize its potential for being a pitfall and try to moderate my urge to post.

The last couple of weeks, I've found a new motivation and drive to work on my novel and I've made some good progress.* A finished product is still not imminent, but I feel once again that I'm on the right track. Part of what has worked for me is coming to grips with the fear of writing and recognizing that it isn't the act of writing I actually enjoy. It's the having written. And you don't get there until you produce a lot of work, most of which will probably not be that good. Most of which, in fact, will be shit. But coming to terms with this has been freeing for me and has allowed me to work unselfconsciously. It's taken away some of the pressure and unfair self-criticisms.

So when I'm not doing work on the Web, I'm going to keep aiming for the long-term payoff of a novel. I'm going to try to post here with less frequency, or length, or both, but I'm going to continue to keep it handy for a quick fix when I need it.

*Note: A lot of this was inspired by Art and Fear, which I would highly recommend to anybody with a creative block.

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