All the Books I May Never Write

My wife and I like to play a game called, “That’s your next book.” 

Whenever I go on a rant about something that irks me, which is many things—like the depressing state of the suburbs or how all social media is essentially a pyramid scheme—she says, “That’s your next book.” Sometimes, I even say it to myself. It’s a nice reminder that my greatest work may still be ahead of me. But of course, it may not.

Every writer I know does this. They assume they have more fuel in the tank, more work to contribute and more things to say. And they are probably right. Until they are not. Nothing lasts forever, of course, and that includes you. We are all just guessing as to what lies ahead. But at some point, the road will end, perhaps more suddenly than expected, and you will be left to consider all the things you never got to do. 

It’s a lovely thing to say you plan to leave this world with no regrets, and I believe some do just that, but I have always been aware of all the possibilities that could have been my life. Naturally, I have often wondered if I will realize each and every one. My guess is I will not.

“We all die unfinished symphonies,” a friend once told me, and I thought that was an eloquent and depressing thing to think, much less say. But it’s probably true. There is a certain beauty to accepting such a fate. The true artist is never done, always opening another can of worms. But at some point, if they keep this up, they will inevitably start a work that will not reach its completion. 

This, I think, is preferable to resting on your laurels for fifty years and going to sleep one night never to wake up again. I’d rather die with five incomplete books in me than try to end on a “high note.” The primary goal of a writer is to always be working on something new. That’s how you stay sane, and I don’t always do it, but it’s the right way to live and work.

No creative person knows which of their attempts at success will actually succeed and which ones will fall flat. And that not knowing can drive you mad. So the best means of not going crazy is to simply have something you are consistently touching on a regular basis. It keeps boredom at bay and gives a person purpose. And maybe that applies to more than just writers, but I wouldn’t know anything about that.

Personally, I have come to terms with the books I may never write, like my semi-autobiographical novel based on the life events of Ernest Hemingway or the collection of narrative nonfiction essays I keep toying with.

I may never finish the short advice book I started to write just for my kids on our front porch or the very steamy story of how I met my wife. I might not even get around to starting, and completing, my Emerson-like series of meditations on a simpler life or that book of poems for the public.

Then again, maybe I will.

Maybe I’ll do it all.

Perhaps, as Steven Pressfield once told me, I will create more than I ever thought possible. Maybe, as he assured me over breakfast one morning in West Hollywood, all these books already exist, floating around somewhere in the ether, waiting to be plucked. And my job is to pull them out of that world and into this one.

I don’t know.

I may never write another book, or I may write thirty more. Both scenarios are equally plausible; most days, though, I choose to believe the latter. In times of stress and self-doubt, I naturally wonder if I’ll ever write anything again. But I am fortunate enough to be surrounded by supportive voices who regularly encourage me; these include my children, wife, and close friends.

They remind me that I am still young and more is possible. Even if that’s not true, it’s comforting to believe. Most of life is this way, I think: simply choosing to believe whatever gets you through another day, week, month, or year. Often, that is good enough. And for me, the sheer possibility that I may not be done yet is reason to keep writing. 

Which brings me to my real point (yes, it took a while to get to). There is, I believe, a major difference between procrastination and what I now consider “creative incubation.” Knowing when you’re doing which makes all the difference.

Recently, a new author asked me when a person is figuring out what he wants to say and when he is putting off the inevitable. One feels like preparation, the other laziness. I remember feeling similarly years ago while working on my fourth book, and my editor-at-the-time Joel J Miller told me that writing and thinking about writing are essentially the same. 

For some reason, that stuck. 

Incidentally, Joel has spent the greater part of a decade working on a book that is finally under contract. Knowing him and how much he has toiled over this work, I can safely say it was a case of incubation. To be sure, there must have been times of distraction and procrastination; but what I know about Joel is that a good chunk of that time was spent on the book itself: considering what it was, what it needed to be, and how he was going to pull it off. 

And he was, of course, writing during much of that time.

Still, so much of the writing life consists in not writing. The publishing deals, the release dates, the much-mythologized book tours and signings are not what an author knows. Not really.

What we know on a regular basis is getting up and reading five books at once, going for a walk, having breakfast, talking to a friend, complaining to a neighbor, thinking about things that won’t leave you alone, listening to a record, eating lunch, taking another walk, pretending to write, actually writing, thinking about what you will write next, then realizing it’s time for dinner.

You think and talk and walk and think and talk, and then you write. This is the writing life. At least the only one I have ever known.

As Henry David Thoreau once mused, “How vain is it to sit down and write when you have not stood up to live.” This is true. Of course, “living” for a writer may look quite mundane to the average person. It might look like taking your kids to school or paying your bills and mowing your lawn. But if you do it with open eyes and a clear head, this is enough. You don’t have to be a hero to write. But you must have thought carefully about your life, about what it is you want to write and why. You must do that before you will do yourself any good sitting down and trying to put it on the page. 

It takes a lot of time and effort to write anything, and most of that time is spent thinking. This is the cause of a lot of so-called “writer’s block.” You aren’t blocked. You simply haven’t thought through what it is you want to say. So when you sit down, nothing comes out. The issue is not one of concentration but consciousness. You aren’t ready to write, you don’t even know what this thing is yet, and that’s okay.

Don’t force the idea; get to know it. Good things take time. But eventually there comes a point when it has reached maturity; and if you don’t act now, it will expire. Like good wine, once an idea peaks, it starts to degrade quickly. Eventually, if not acted upon, the thing moves on and finds another willing participant in this strange alchemy of writing.

How does this happen, and when? No one knows exactly, but my experience suggests that there is a very real feeling inside of you when it does. You can sense the drift, like that of a disinterested lover: a certain coldness starts to settle in. This is a warning. Act now or resign yourself to later regret. 

Ideas come and go, of course, some seemingly more brilliant than others, and you don’t always have the talent or ability to capture them. This is okay. It’s like going on a date and concluding the person you’re courting is out of your league. It’s humbling, but there is nothing wrong with admitting your own inadequacy. And that is vastly preferable to assuming you can do something you cannot. Just because you are able to imagine a story doesn’t mean you should be the one to write it. Learn to let ideas go graciously. It will make your writing life easier, I promise.

If, however, you find yourself bouncing from one project to the next, unable to commit to the latest work and unwilling to take it past the first few pages, then you are procrastinating. Pushing off the discomfort of creation, you find yourself endlessly holding out for the right time to create, which never comes. Living like this will result in no real output and a lifetime of wondering “what could have been.” As someone who did this for a decade, I do not recommend such a course. 

But if, on the other hand, you wake early in the morning thinking about an idea, if it comes back to haunt at various hours of the day, especially when you are quiet; and when you do think about it, the concept only gets stronger and more clear, it matures with time, then this thing may be a true case of creative incubation. It is waiting for you. Meanwhile, you may still be producing other work while it grows softly in the background of your mind. It is in the chrysalis, readying itself. But this thing is still a baby, unready to walk on its own. It needs proper care and attention, and you cannot rush that.

Like any good parent, your job is to tend to this fledgling idea. Bring it out as often as you can without demanding too much of it at once. Don’t lock it in a closet and expect something beautiful to emerge without any struggle. You may decide to set it on a shelf for months, if not years, but if it keeps coming back, stronger than before, do not ignore or neglect this. 

Some day, perhaps sooner than you realize, the idea will return, like a freight train, shaking the walls of your interior self. It may show up as a storm, demanding your attention. When this happens, don’t let the feeling pass; try to heed the call. Open the bottle and get drunk on your own genius. Who knows when another time like this will emerge, if ever. Such occasions are rarer than we realize. And they take greater care than we often understand. Being ready for them is half the battle.

Don’t confuse incubation for procrastination, and vice versa. Navigating the tension between these two opposites is the stuff that a creative life is made of.

Anyway, that’s my next book. Maybe. ;)

What’s yours?

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