Magic in the Sand by Peter Combs

The life of a writer is a fickle one. At least that has been my experience thus far. At times there are brief, yet wonderful, periods in which the words flow faster than I'm able to transcribe. Other times, I feel as if I'd be more productive if I were to take up the hobby of coaxing Diet Coke out of a brick. What is it about writers that make us want to be so miserable? Because if I were being truly honest, by doing what I love (and I really mean that), I spend more time in a state of misery than I spend in a state of joy. And if I were to take that thought one step further, the elation that comes from finishing an article or story only lasts for a brief moment. Sooner, and always rather than later, the newly written piece starts to look like something that belongs to the past. It's usually in that moment that I am faced with something that all writers inevitably face, which is the obstacle of creating something all over again.

The question may arise (from an exasperated spouse, or from within your own mind): couldn't we better spend our time by doing something else? And the answer to that question is, and always will be, yes, of course we could. There's always something that needs tending to. I think it is safe to say that the life of a writer dictates that if you are writing, you are ignoring such things like leaky faucets, or dirty clothes in a hamper. The same argument could be made, that to spend the necessary time to properly remedy such problems, would mean that you are ignoring your craft. I am sure that there is a healthy balance somewhere in between, but I have yet to find it. The fact of the matter is, if I set out to wash the dishes, within half an hour or so (don't judge - writing usually wins), my efforts will produce clean dishes. I cannot, however, guarantee that when I sit down to write, that words will be written.

So why is it then, that we writers feel the incessant urge to plant our feet on such productively unstable grounds? Is it for the reader? I think it's okay to say that they're a part of it. But do we write, with all that writing entails, for the mere entertainment of people that we've never met? I don't think so, at least I haven't found that to be the case when I write. For me, the reader is really an afterthought.

It's akin to how I felt when I was a child. There was one summer when I swear I spent all day creating sandcastles in my parent's backyard sandbox. I did this because I thoroughly enjoyed the doing of it. Whenever I finished, I was proud of what I had accomplished and would often stand back and admire my masterpiece. After I had spent the appropriate amount of time allotted for four-year-olds to stand still at one given moment, I was usually no less excited about getting to share my "work" with my mom or dad. By nightfall, I would often think back over my day and about how much fun I had creating those castles. It was during this time that I would begin to wonder how long it would be before I got to do it all over again. The point is, I had fun being creative. When my creations were complete, I shared it with those I loved. I did so, because I wanted them to experience the magic that I had experienced. But in the end I always did it for me.

I believe writing works the same way. This may go against those who believe that one should write for an audience, but I'd like to think that while I may not necessarily be writing what someone wants to hear, perhaps I am writing what they need to hear. The only way that I truly know how to do that, is by approaching my writing sessions as honestly as I possibly can, and by doing so, shutting out the rest of the world and all of the opinions housed within it. Then, and only then, am I able to lose myself in the magic of creating. Sure, what I call a masterpiece may only look like clumps of sand. But when I am done, I promise I will always be none the less proud of it, because I gave it my all. That's why I return to it, day in, and day out. And that's something that I feel is worth sharing.