Any writer who tells you they’ve never thought about quitting writing is a big fat liar.
I’ve thought about it plenty. And I’ve even tried, a few times. For me that never last more than a few sulky hours. I am most likely to walk out on my writing in the heat of the moment: when a plot seems impossible, when I hate every word that I write, when my big gorgeous ideas become shrunken, dried-out bits of blah on the page.
But last week I saw some discussion on a listserv about a writer, Declan Burke, who has thought long and hard, applied logic and reason, and decided to quit. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this guy. We’ve got a lot in common: GenX’ers with a young family to take care of, trying to squeeze writing around that and our demanding day job. I think I know how he felt, when he made this decision; he probably felt like there would never, ever be enough time in the day. Like writing was the ultimate selfish act. Like if he just quit writing, things would be easier. Much easier. Hey. I feel all those things sometimes too.
But you know what stopped that thinking cold for me, the last few months? When my four year old insisted that I read him CANDOR—my young adult novel with over 200 pages and zero illustrations. I’d given him his own signed copy, thinking he’d put it on the shelf with the other signed chapter books I’d collected for him at conferences, for Some Day Far Away when he’d read them. But no—he brought it to me, the biggest smile on his face, and insisted: “read, Mommy. Read me the book that you wrote. Read me all the words.” I read him the first chapter, and thought that would be it. But no. Every night he asks for the next chapter. We’re nearly at the halfway point now. No worries, I’m not reading him all the words or even paragraphs (if you’ve read CANDOR, you can imagine the bits I’m excising). But he’s fascinated. I’d like to think it’s fabulous writing that’s got him enthralled, but I think it’s something else.
This book made me a real-life superhero in my son’s eyes. A superhero whose cape he can borrow.
I did something that he knew, theoretically, was possible. Someone had to write all those books that threaten to spill from every available space in his room. Mo Willems and Ted Arnold and Kate DiCamillo are real people, he knows. He’s just never met them, let alone seen them in sweatpants with hair that hasn’t been washed in three days. But here’s his ordinary mother, whose book sits right next to those other books. She did this.
Which means he can do it too.
Now he’s dictating “chapters” of a story about a dinosaur family to a very patient teacher at his school. He brings one home each night and I read it to him, usually several times. He’s so proud of his story. And he tells me he’s going to write more, and more…just like Mommy.
How could I quit now?
I know this could be a short-term thing. And there’s no way I’ll pressure him to write. This has to be his thing. But… it could last forever. My example could boost him to write bigger, bolder, better things than me.
My grandfather played piano in bars and restaurants, every Friday and Saturday night, while he held down a full-time corporate job. He never quit that job. He never quit playing. Then his kids came along and loved music too. One even made a living teaching music. She was able to make her passion for music a full-time job… something he probably dreamed of, but never got to do.
They say that children stand on their parents’ shoulders. Being a writer makes my shoulders a pretty cool place to stand. So now, when I want to quit, I think of my son’s face when he held that copy of CANDOR out to me. I want him to hold other books out to me too. Books that inspire him and show him that anyone can write a book… or follow any dream.
You just can’t quit. And you have to give yourself permission to keep going.
Monday, November 30, 2009 at 5:41PM 
