Crossposted to Deadline Dames, where there is more high-quality writing advice than you could shake a stick at. Go check ‘em out!
Today I underwent pain for something I love.
I’m not quite a tattoo junkie, but I do crave ink sometimes. The endorphin rushes–I think your body runs out of pain transmitters and starts firing feel-good across the gaps to compensate–are a reward during the process, but it’s really afterward when the work is done and a full-body flush and tingle hits that I understand why I crave it. I’ve been working off and on at getting my back tattooed the way I want it, and I underwent an hour and a half today. A major step forward.
I started out when I was barely legal, with two crows on the back of my shoulders. (They are related to Huginn and Muginn, of course.) At the base of my spine is a serpentine dragon twisted into an 8 for infinity–you could call it Kundalini if you wanted. The big piece across my midback is a half-skeleton crow with two Eyes of Horus in its wings. The last piece I don’t talk about, but it will go at the top, and there will be tribal work to tie it all together into a unified whole. After that I’m done with ink, I’ll have done everything I needed to with it.
The tattoo artist was fascinated with the idea of writing for a living. It went a little something like this.
“How do you get started doing that? I mean, where do you even begin?”
I explained how I’d got there, and also a little of my philosophy–how failing wasn’t an option, how I just kept going, and how I was happy, every day, to be doing what I love.
“Yeah,” she said, pausing with the needle for a moment. “I sometimes think I should do something else, you know. Because when you do something you love all the time, maybe you can get burned out on it. That would be awful.”
I considered this, wincing internally as she started shading in a particularly sensitive spot. “I guess so. But even–ouch–with all the copyedits and deadlines and proof pages and reviews, I never get tired of it. I get excited every day. Plus I’m saving on ulcer medication, because I like my job.”
“Oh, I hear you.” The buzz of the needle underscored her words. “That’s a good way to look at it. But so many people seem to like being miserable. It’s like they pursue it. It’s so hard not to get sucked into that. It’s a bad place to be, you know. You just catch yourself actively making yourself miserable.”
I laughed, taking care to hold still and sucking in my breath afterward as she went back to that spot. It hurt like hell.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, that just hurts like a bitch.”
“Well, yeah. I’m going to be working around it, so it’ll feel like I’m doing it right there. Promise I’m not.”
“Go for it.” And then I settled down to endure.
Driving home afterward, my back tender and the to-do list for the day beating inside my head, I thought a little bit about it. Yes, this career has its down side. No insurance, no salary, you’re basically freelancing. And you’re judged every moment, whether it’s in the slush pile, in revision, or out on the shelves. Very little security. And everything depends on keeping the creative muscles limber, on self-discipline, on just plain guts.
And I would not trade this for anything.
I’d get a day job if I had to. I’d work nine to five, be a single mum, and write at night. I’ve done it before, it’s exhausting. But giving up the writing is not an option. It demands to be done, and I will do it until they pry the keyboard out of my chill slack dead fingers. I love it that much. It’s what I was meant and made for.
So. If this is what you were made for too, dear fellow writer, then do it. Keep at it, don’t ever give it up. Do this thing that you love and let it make you happy. I realize both the tattoo artist and I are on the fringes, making a living in the “artistic” field. But she’s been in business for over ten years, I’ve got a few books out, and both of those things require discipline. Your dreams do not just fall into your lap. You have to actively reach up and grab.
While you’re grabbing, though, don’t let go of the joy. Doing the thing I believe I was meant and made for provides me with a satisfaction that is hard to put into words because it is so deep and abiding. It’s how I imagine a cheetah must feel when it runs something down. Or how a racecar must feel when it takes a fast curve; or a plane as it lifts from the ground. An elegant, perfect satisfaction that I call joy because there is simply no other word for it.
This is partly why I make time for writing. Because it just feels so damn good.
How about you?
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