The Weight

Fri, 21 May 2010 16:24:58 -0400

A couple of weeks ago I finished a draft of Playing With Fire, the memoir/novel I’ve been working on for years. This is a big deal. I’ve been working on this draft alone for over a year. I’ve got old drafts of the book in my hard drive from 2003, and I know I started it well before then. I’ve taken breaks here and there, to write a full-length play, for one -- but it’s fair to say I’ve put the better part of seven years into this book.

How did I feel when I put the last sentence down? Ecstatic? Euphoric? Enthusiastic? Nope. Disgusted is as close to it as I can come.

In 2000, I flew to the southeast of Venezuela and climbed Mt. Roraima. There’s a cartoon version of that mountain in the film “Up”. It’s an ancient mesa that stands thousands of feet above the rolling savannas, with stark vertical sides and waterfalls cascading from the top. My native Guyanan guide, Charles and I spent two days hiking just approaching the mountain, and we scaled it on the third day.

We didn’t head straight up the cliff, of course. There is a path that angles across the face. But it was the most demanding climb I’ve ever made. It was like hiking over a rock pile through a tropical shower most of the way. And all day long, Charles stayed close enough to keep an eye on my progress, but only let me catch up with him once or twice. I kept thinking we could rest together, and kept climbing until I caught him. I think he knew that there was no hope of making it if we spent more than a few minutes resting. It was infuriating, but there was no alternative. There was no way to give up halfway. There was nowhere to camp besides at the very top.

When we reached the summit late in the day, I was so insanely tired of lugging my pack, I threw it to the ground with disgust. I’d never felt such animosity towards my pack before. I was so exhausted that the upper layers of my mind weren’t even engaged. The only part of my brain that was still operating saw my pack as a villain that had been assailing me since the morning, clinging like a linebacker, dragging me downward toward the savannas.

It was that same disgust I felt when I typed in that last revision on this version of Playing With Fire. I was surprised when I saw myself throw my pack down and I was surprised when I hit “Save” and felt not one iota of joy.

A good deal of the artistic process can be surprisingly gritty, annoying, and decidedly un-gratifying. We expect life to be like that, but not art. Art is supposed to flow from our soul and shower us with bliss. We don’t expect to feel joy at the end of a workday, but can be resentful when our art doesn’t deliver elation and satisfaction.

The next day on Roraima, I wasn’t feeling any more gracious towards my pack. Lucky for both of us I didn’t have to put it on again for another day. The same goes for my manuscript. I’ve been doing some other writing while I wait for my readers to offer their critiques. And I think I’m going to have to lean on some positive feedback before I’m disposed to dive into the polishing phase.

These are natural emotions, but I can’t help but think that a less combative attitude towards climbing, writing, and perhaps life itself, might be worth considering. Or is it the combative spirit, the fire in the belly, that powers us to the summit?

Kurt Opprecht - Coaching for Artists and Writers - All contents of this site copyright Kurt Opprecht, 2010

The Weight

Kurt Opprecht - Coaching for Artists and Writers - All contents of this site copyright Kurt Opprecht, 2010