How to Avoid Going Insane As A Writer
And have sharp-looking shirts while you’re at it
Today I spent a very satisfying half-hour ironing sheets. I never dreamed I would find solace in ironing, but I have. I was raised by an ironer; my mother ironed everything, including our underwear. But from as early as I can remember, I railed against ironing and told my mother how pointless it seemed to me. I chose clothes that were meant to be drapey rather than crisp, and anything that was meant to be crisp I redefined as wrinkly. I vowed I would never spend a minute of my life bent over an ironing board pressing out a sleeve when the sleeve was just going to get wrinkled anyway. I wouldn’t waste my time on such futile things.
I spend my time instead trying to perfect the imperfectible. I spend my time trying to craft the perfect sentence, trying to choose just the right word, trying to find every last detail, trying to build the perfectly structured story or book. Often the pursuit is exhilarating. But it can also be stupendously frustrating, because, of course, there is no perfect sentence or word or story. In writing, the ultimate is never achievable. If I work hard and the words feel right I might be satisfied, but I can never feel completely content. How could I? Writing is not an absolute. At your best, you hit close to the mark, but it’s not science; it never…
