You've been thinking that writing, the more you do it — the more that you love to do it, or at least love what can happen on the giddying occasions when you do it and it works — is no easier than it used to be when you still considered your self an abject beginner. Far from it. Okay, you write even more than you used to write — you write and you write and you think about writing for most of the day (in the shower, in the train, in front of the class you are teaching) — and you seem, too, as a result of this writing, so much more aware of when the wrong notes sound, but this only means that half or even more than half of the time that you are writing you are either deleting what you’ve only just written or once more re-writing. More deleting and rewriting than writing in the first degree. But then all of it is writing, still, surely. You tell your self that the best of the writing will come when you’re no longer waiting for it, since the more that you write without caring — or thinking or looking (even though all of it is done while caring) — there will soon come a moment when something comes alive in the dredges of the letters — a stirring of serifs and virgules — a rippling along the bumpy length of its horrible spine — and then the whole of the writing gets done in a single gesture, a single move. Yes, this is why you write, you say when it happens in front of you. When you whoop and jig around in your room in your socks. So, you write and you write, since you are always susceptible to the memory of this whooping — after all, it’s nothing more than an addiction to writing — a chasing of the writing — a seeking after the whoop that has come and gone or misfired in the past, but could well come again.
All you have to do, you know, is keep paying for that writing. You don’t go out or wash up because you
are writing; you don’t answer the phone or make that call or sweep the stairs
because you have to write. Of course, the smutty smears that follow from your
writing will be visible, as you know — everyone must see it — the addict of
writing, they are always saying, at least to themselves — the pathetic addict
of terrible writing. It’s embarrassing, too, the way you set up for the
writing: three fat pillows, one on top of the other on a bed in a hotel room.
You go down for the free coffee and tea from a machine every hour or so, when
the staff at their standing desk with its pyramid of apples turn around to look
at you as you emerge like a sucked dry thief from the fire escape. What kind of
person turns her back on the Synagogue of Wrocław so that she might keep on
writing? What kind of person writes and writes and knows that for the most part
it is lifeless, pre-known, a dry little sponge?
You begin to suspect that,
at its best, writing might just be some sort of useless labour: the heaving of
a pile of boulders from the front of a house to the back — which is to say that
every one around you is laughing as they watch you at it. Better to pay an
expert, surely, and get it right from the start. And yet, really, although
the writing that you do is wasteful, you still work at it doggedly, stupidly —
spending the whole day labouring over a single section — writing and writing,
like someone who has not the least idea of how to write but who still keeps on writing in spite of it all. Because there will always be something, as you say
to your self as you work — an ephemerally, flipping something — and this you will
curl around your finger so you can wear it out in the evenings afterwards —
when you listen with a smug distain to the talk of your friends who have been doing
nothing all day but making decisions.
The sometimes pride of your