March 2010

Meditations on a Warm Summer Night with a Plate of Wontons
By Vylar Kaftan

Vylar Kaftan writes speculative fiction of all genres, including science fiction, fantasy, horror, and slipstream. Her stories have appeared in Realms of Fantasy, Strange Horizons, ChiZine, and Clarkesworld. Her work has been reprinted in Horror: The Best of the Year, honorably mentioned in The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, and shortlisted for the WSFA Small Press Award. She lives with her husband Shannon in northern California. Her hobbies include modern-day temple dancing and preparing for a major earthquake. Her favorite color is all of them. She prefers the term "differently sane".

It's 1:02 AM. I'm sitting in a dark kitchen, with only the computer screen light to see by. The air conditioner is humming. I'm thinking about microwaving some shrimp wontons from the freezer. I'm restless and frustrated.

I'm not a night person.

Nights like these happen sometimes. I haven't written any fiction today. I feel like I should have. I should have done something. That's what "real writers" say. 500 words a day. 1,000 words a day. Something. Commit to your craft, take it seriously, be a professional. It's true that writing every day can do wonderful things for your career. 500 times 7 is 3,500: a short story. 1,000 times 90 is 90,000: a novel, in three months. But sometimes life just doesn't work that way.

Even with the air conditioner, it's warm in here. The microwave beeps. The kitchen smells of shrimp and cilantro. Wontons help me stall the inevitable — facing the blank page, the moment when I have to start typing. It's not always terrible. When I let go, the words pour out and they feel like genius — even when they're not. When I think too hard, the words trickle to a stop, and I'm convinced they're the worst thing I've ever written — even when they're not.

Meditation #1: First drafts deceive you with illusions and mind tricks.

The plate is empty. The page is empty. And I'm tempted to stare at my screen, not typing, thinking old and troublesome thoughts. If only I were smarter, if only I were better, if only I were a success. I'm not hungry anymore, but another plate of wontons sounds like a perfect idea right now.

Let me tell you a story.

When I started writing at age 10, I sold most of my fiction. The publishers loved it. These magazines published children's writing, and I realized that — but surely once I was an adult, the regular markets would open up too. I made about $80 in fifth grade, and I bought myself an opal ring to commemorate it. That opal ring sits in my jewelry box. The stone is shattered. I didn't know opals were fragile.

I grew up, of course. I wrote stories, and sent them out. And now it wasn't so easy. Rejections. Rejections. I wasn't good enough anymore. No one wanted my stories. I wrote more of them. Rejections. What happened? What changed? Had I gotten worse? Still I wrote more, and still got rejections.

And then I quit.

I didn't write for a few years. I did other things with my life — some art, some theatre, some roleplaying. They were fun, and they helped me avoid the truth. I didn't have to face it: the gnawing fear that no one was listening to me. That my words weren't enough. The empty page — where even when you're typing words, the bottom is still blank. But that's how life works. We can't ever see what's coming.

Meditation #2: It's always blank ahead of you — and always will be. The blank page is a natural state.

A couple years back, I started writing again. Why? I saw my life stretching out before me, stark and bare like the empty page. I thought: if only I can get through this beginning part. If only I can get someone, somewhere, to validate my work. I thought: I need someone to believe in me, because I don't believe in myself. But at that point, all I could do was slog through it. And I did get through it, and I started writing again.

Meditation #3: Everyone says, "Don't quit." The real answer is, "Don't quit, but if you do, start again. Repeat as necessary."

I wrote stories. Some were okay. Most were bad, though I didn't know that at the time. I sent them out. And I kept thinking — if only someone buys one, then I'll be happy. That's what will make me believe in myself. That'll surely be enough. But rejections. Rejections.

When I got laid off, I applied to Clarion West. That will make me happy, I thought. If I get accepted to the workshop, that'll be enough. And I did get in the workshop, and it did make me happy, and I had an amazing time. But I needed to sell a story. Surely that would be enough.

Shortly after the workshop, I sold my first story to an adult market. I was thrilled. I earned $9 and the story was published online. I sent the link to my friends and family. I was thrilled for a while, and then it faded into memory. And I thought: when I sell to a major market, then I'll be happy. That will do it.

But already I saw the pattern, faint but distinct like a watermark.

Now the memory makes me smile, as I sit alone in a warm kitchen in my slippers. Lots of writers say they can't wait to sell a story. Or finish a draft. Or sell a novel. "That's when you're a writer," they say. That's when it's real.

The thing is, the target moves. You never get there. Sure, you meet your goal, and for a short time it's delightful. But then the next hurdle appears, and so quickly many of us forget our accomplishments and focus on the new goal. Once you've succeeded, you forget what you did to get there. New writers want their first sale. Midlist writers crave their big breakout. Experienced pros strive for ever-higher triumphs or quitting their day jobs — or if nothing else, just another sale, another book, the next step in their writerly march.

Where are you right now? In a darkened room that smells of wontons? Awake on a night where you normally aren't? What are you looking for? What will prove that you've made it?

Humans are amazingly adaptive. Several studies compared the happiness of recent lottery winners to people who'd just suffered a disabling accident or illness. As you might guess, the lottery winners started out happier. But six months later, when they tested them again, the two groups had converged — they were equally happy. People adapt to bad situations. They also adapt to good ones. After a while, what brought you joy becomes mundane.

Meditation #4: Nothing — no sale, no award, no cheering crowd — will firmly and forever establish your happiness.

Maybe you're just starting. Maybe you're scratching out character sketches. Maybe you're sending out stories. When you get that sale — that will prove it, right? That will mean you've made it?

In your future career, you'll be just about as happy as you are now. Think about it.

Find joy in what you do. Love the moment, the creation, the wildness — yes, even that empty page, full of potential, able to hold any idea you choose to mark on it. You can write, change, erase, edit — you can do anything with that page, given time.

No one can validate you except yourself. No one. And if that's hard to swallow, and you need some water, drink this thought — and remember it when you thirst again.

Meditation #5: You are enough.

It's 1:58. I'm going to start a new story.