Reverse Psychology Gone Wrong
Or, How My Boyfriend Dares to be Single
Boyfriend tried this thing the other day - something I thought I was immune to, something I was immediately alert to, and responded to…viscerally.
He told me that it was time to find a new goal.
I was lamenting - fine, whining - that I’d always wanted to write a book. That it was a thing I assumed I’d always have time to do. With the arrival of my 47th birthday, however, I was despairing it would ever happen.
In an infuriatingly matter-of-fact voice, he said, “Well, it’s not going to happen, so it’s time to find a new goal.”
Before you shower me with exhortations to kick his ass to the curb, I should tell you that Boyfriend has been nothing but supportive since I met him in July of 2021.
He started by being encouraging: “I know you can do this, you’re a great writer!”
Then by trying logic: “It’s my responsibility as your partner to help you to be the best version of yourself you can be.”
Next he went to….well. Bribery. “If you join this site, Substack, I will pay to be your subscriber.”
And. Here we are. On Substack, without a novel in sight and a Boyfriend who is questioning the choice he made in a flighty partner.*
(*I’m a committed single mother who is focused on her job as a high school teacher. But, in terms of my writing - flighty.)
When I was around 10 years old, I would scribble à la Jo March for hours. I looked forward to car trips with my family because I could write and write and write without avoiding chores, without guilt. Some of my stories were what-was-then-unnamed-fanfic (it was 1986; who did not write knockoffs about Jareth the Goblin King?) Some, though, were exhaustive explorations about the interactions of twins separated at birth, or of princesses hidden as paupers, or of intellectual children deprived of books. As we drove the flat stretches between Illinois and Indiana, I would find wood sprites in the forests flashing along outside the car windows. Even in the 1980s, I would imagine their anger at the ecological impact made by gasoline-powered automobiles.
I translated those fantasies into stories.
I wrote good stories.
I won awards for my stories. The most successful piece of my childhood was a murder mystery set in England, where the butler did it for the sanity of the lady of the house; they ended up in love. That story garnered a State ribbon. (It also provided a trip with a hotel stay during which my family and I shared an elevator with Mohammed Ali. My father has never stopped telling that story.)I have notebooks - nearly a hundred of them, literally - filled with scribbles - some only a few lines, some a few pages, some several tens of pages. However, for a single work, I’ve only ever achieved 50,000 [very rough] words thanks to NaNoWriMo!
Meanwhile, Girl Child (currently 17 years old) has written four 90-ish-thousand word novels. Full novels. She’s been editing them for a couple of years, with the goal of agent-to-publication. Have I passed on this need, this drive to write stories? Or is it just the natural outcome of reading Tamora Pierce and Frances Hardinge? (You’re welcome for those, by the way, Girl Child.)
As I begin my (yikes) 48th trip around the sun, I find myself thinking about my own motives for writing.
I read books in gulps - one per sitting, two to three hours per sitting. Speed reading is my most valuable genetic gift. Well, okay. Harry Potter took me about five hours from midnight release. Whenever I finish a book, any book, I am inspired to take to my writing desk. Of course, the more accomplished the book, the more insistent the inspiration: Year of Wonders by Geraldine Brooks, Devil in the White City by Erik Larson, Sexing the Cherry by Jeanette Winterston, and pretty much anything by Robin McKinley or Garth Nix.
Yet, when I sit down to write, after having read these Literary Pieces of Heaven, nothing I produce comes close to being comparable. Nothing has the emotional impact or the logical resonance of these treasures I’ve read.
When I ask my students why we read, they look at me blankly before trying to pull out Answers They Think I Want to Hear. “To prepare for standardized tests.” “To learn about writing.” “To learn about literature.” “To get better at reading.”
And I weep.
I read because I cannot live without doing so. I read the way I breathe: as necessary to my survival. I will read cereal boxes if nothing else is available.
I. Must. Read.
Writing, however.
Writing is something I want to do. I am good at writing. I enjoy writing. So what keeps me from completing my stories?
(No, seriously. What are your thoughts?)
Boyfriend has recommended I take up coin collecting or visiting every state park as the goal to replace my writing-a-novel goal. I have committed that I will not kick him to the curb - yet. His reverse psychology may still bring about my ultimate goal: to publish a novel.
At least, he hopes this works. It’s a tough time to be single in our society.
Wow, Girl Child is killing it. Four 90k novels before being legally able to vote? 👊
I believe that you will accomplish what you really want to accomplish, when you're ready to accomplish it.
And, since we are engaging in parlor-room psychoanalysis, here's mine: You do not complete a novel because that allows you to stay in the perpetual state of creation, which is a wonderful place to be. "Finished" is as yet an unknown state, which you fear because it implies an end to the creation state.
I can only tell you what kept me from writing for a very long time: a combination of fear, low-self esteem, and something else I still can't exactly put my finger on. I've wanted to be a published writer since I was fifteen and writing had been in fits and spurts--usually only when I felt like it.
But I only truly feel like I've accomplished something when I'm writing (or have written, ha, I know you understand this) and get really down on myself when I'm not writing. Which was a LOT.
And then late March 2020 happened and my job (I work in a call center) didn't know what to do with us, so we all went home and were "on call" for about ten weeks, then they moved us to emails from home. I had all this extra time on my hands and wanted to write but couldn't get myself to do it. Then something my mom said made it click for me (and I wish I could remember exactly what it was, but I can't find the email) and I started writing. My goal was 500 words every day. And I stuck with that for almost two years. Some days I had to make the goal 100 words, knowing I'd do more once I got started, but I wrote every day.
And in a year, I'd written two 85000 word books.
Life happened HARD at the beginning of 2022 and my writing went steadily downhill. Right now I'm lucky if I write once a week. Most days I'm too tired. Sometimes I get a burst of "just do it it'll make you feel better," and it does, but it doesn't carry over to the next day. Every day I don't write is a day I feel like I'm not doing anything with my life and I'm going to be stuck in job I hate until I die.
What I'll say that I think may resonate with you, with what little you've said about your life, is that working a job that doesn't pay you enough to live on and having to work a second (and third) job kills the spirit and desire to do anything but rest when you've not working. I think you can absolutely write as many books as you want. I also think you're emotionally, physically, and spiritually exhausted, which takes a toll on every aspect of life.
So my only piece of advice is this: try to write 100 words a day. Some days maybe you only eke out twenty words, but you've WRITTEN. And on the days when you just absolutely can't, give yourself grace.