I’ve been a fan of Molly Wizenburg for a few years, thanks to a dear friend who turned me onto her blog, Orangette. When her book, A Homemade Life, was announced, I pre-ordered it. And I wasn’t disappointed when it finally arrived on my doorstep.
Her book, like her blog, is about food, but not really. It’s more about the memories we build around food. To put it simply, parts of her book made me cry, and I don’t cry about food (exception: onions).
She is in the midst of writing a second book, while also helping out at Delancey, the restaurant she opened with her husband a couple years ago. I’ve wondered about her writing process, so I was so elated to read her latest post.
An excerpt:
I understand that some people wake up itching to write. They feel as though they somehow aren’t complete unless they’re writing. I have never been one of those people. I have wondered what it’s like to be one of those people. Sometimes I have wondered what it would be like to punch those people. I had coffee with a writer friend a couple of weeks ago, a friend who is working on a cookbook, and she confided that she was feeling a little envious of the process that lies ahead of me with my next book. You get to do that whole immersion thing, she explained. You get to go headfirst into the cave, the cave where the story is, and there’s nothing else that feels like what that feels like: intense and exhausting, but also electric sometimes, as though you weren’t really alive until you got in there. I knew she was right, and I have occasionally felt that way, but the thing is, getting into the cave is very, very uncomfortable. It’s almost painful. I will do anything to avoid it. I’ve been sitting by the mouth of the cave for four months. I’ve been sweeping my flashlight around on the walls inside, checking for bats, worrying about bats, wondering if I’m going to die from whatever that virus is that’s transmitted in bat guano, wondering if maybe I already have that virus, wondering if that’s why my skin is acting up, and yes, obviously, why didn’t I see it before, that’s why I’ve been feeling bloated! I will do anything to avoid going inside. I will make myself miserable, just to avoid it.
This is so familiar to me, and my own avoidance of “the cave” has caused me so much guilt and angst. After all, how am I a “real writer” if I don’t want to go into the cave? Didn’t I used to want to go into the cave? I think I did…before I had a real job and a mortgage and adult concerns and a weird dating life to process on an almost daily basis.
That will kill creativity faster than anything — that whisper of doubt that says, “You’re not a real writer.” You’re not committed enough, passionate enough, _________ enough. Somehow, I’ve learned to ignore the whispers. It helps to hear from other writers, like Molly, doing their own life juggling act. I love writing. I always have and always will. I’ve accepted that it tends to come in phases, and I don’t judge the lulls like I used to. They happen for a reason, a truth I usually don’t realize until months have passed and I’m knee deep in writing a new story or novel. Or, in other words, hunkered down in the writing cave.
I love this post and completely relate. I think the reluctance to “enter the cave” always exists and always has… we just don’t always remember it. So when we’re there, peering in… we feel like it’s the first time. It can be paralyzing. This reluctance usually envelops me when I’m confronting a final revision… like I am now. I want it to be great. I don’t want to let myself down. I must get the sonofabitch play to the ultimate best form and nothing less will do. It must be effing brilliant. No less. At the very least, I must flip my entire body inside out so that my guts are on the outside. And yes, that’s scary. That’s why I allow myself “safer” ways into the cave.
I begin with a pen and a pad of paper. I allow myself to write disjointed notes. To write around scenes, slowly getting closer to the center until I’m just there. Without realizing it. If I opt for the jumping in head first route, I usually arm myself with red wine.
By the way, you introduced me to Orangette a while ago. I read only a few posts, but thought, “I should really be reading this blog.” Now I think, “I should really read her book.”
(Thanks for the wonderfully insightful post.)
Steph
What a wonderful comment, Steph. It makes me really miss you! I’m so glad you can relate. You’re right that writing is usually about finding “safer” ways into the cave.
And, yes, I highly recommend Orangette. I love her writing style.