Trust me, I’ve considered it many times. I’ve been frustrated with an agent, the publishing process in general, my characters, the feedback I get from the kind readers of my first drafts. I’ve wanted to throw in the proverbial towel. And, frankly, I have. I’ve gone months without writing a single line of fiction. I think I even went a couple years there. But, I always come back to it. Always.
It’s not by choice. I don’t force myself to sit down at my desk and start writing again. I’m usually intrigued by something. A story comes a-knockin’, so to speak. And, even if I’m busy or tired or whatever, I let it in. I’m curious. It’s as simple as that.
All that said, I’m perplexed by Philip Roth’s declaration that he has quit writing. Done, over, kaput.
In an interview published last week, he said:
“I haven’t written a word of fiction since 2009. I have no desire to write fiction. I did and it’s done. There’s more to life than writing and publishing fiction. There is another way entirely, amazed as I am to discover it at this late date.”
When asked what he does instead, he said: “I swim, I follow baseball, look at the scenery, watch a few movies, listen to music, eat well and see friends. In the country I am keen on nature.” He added, “Barely time left for a continuing preoccupation with aging, writing, sex and death. By the end of the day I am too fatigued.”
I call bullshit.
Maybe he’s giving up on publishing his work (because having your work reviewed by millions of people isn’t all ponies and rainbows), but I doubt he’s quit writing completely. I would bet money on him having a little journal on his nightstand, with an accompanying pen. There is something in those pages.
It’s like Ray Bradbury said:
Right?