Juggling Eggs
Writing fiction is like juggling eggs. It’s a game of attention conservation, because there is too much going on simultaneously to be able to follow it all with your mere human capabilities. So what you do is train your reflexes so that your attention can be on the egg you are catching.
You drill.
Then you trust gravity to do its job in a predictable fashion and your hand to know what the beat is and where to be to perform the catch-and-flick to get the egg back up there.
This works just fine until something—the wind, grit in your eye, a sudden gust of gravity—intervenes. And then the scramble begins to catch up. Or, in the worst case scenario, eggs all over your face, and the floor.
And of course there’s the added pressure that, in the current art climate, if you’re seeking traditional publication or you’re self-publishing, you’re competing with the best in the whole world. Readers have such wide access right now that they can find exactly what they want, and nobody wants to watch a so-so juggler.
Every time you think you have it nailed down, somebody adds another egg. Or changes the pattern up. You keep learning, and it keeps getting harder and requiring more concentration, and also more faith that your hand and the egg are going to be where they need to be.
And so many things want to move that hand, that egg: child care, elder care, day jobs, health issues, getting older, pets, houses, friends in need, relationship troubles, the fucking dishwasher springing a leak, the relentless grind of international authoritarianism chipping away at liberal democracy. Existence is a maintenance trap, and it’s a maintenance trap that can’t be beat.
Gravity works, and entropy always wins.
The more I know about writing the more I find myself watching intently as colleagues try something super tricky. I’m rooting for them so hard: stick the landing stick the landing stick the landing.
So you do what you can, and you push yourself to take risks and make something that might matter to somebody. Maybe even only to yourself. But that means more eggs.
Okay, so keep juggling. Git gud.
Because it’s so fucking satisfying when that egg lands right in your glove.
And then you flick it up again.
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