Underachieving Writer

I considered several alternate titles for this post, including "The Pressure to Produce." In my case, and in the case of most fiction writers, the pressure is largely internal. And fierce.

Last night I was reading Reynolds Price's latest novel THE GOOD PRIEST'S SON. I noted once again that Reynolds has published something on the order of 50 books. I wiped the exact figure from my mind.

I envy such productivity.

I hold no grudge against the success of others. In fact it's a pleasure that inevitably gives me hope. But output--that's a different matter.

Then too, out-in-the-world reception of my books is not directly in my control. Productivity is. Or so I nag at myself.

I try to tell myself that my currently unbudging slower pace is part of some divine natural order. Plants grow at different rates, and all that. The argument works some of the time.

If I felt I was giving writing books my 100% best effort every day, then I think I'd be satisfied. But who does that? Quite a few writers, I imagine. Not me. I procrastinate part of almost every day. I do get to the work. But what of those hours of desk-puttering? I wonder what my life and my work would look like if I focused all day. Maybe better, maybe worse. I don't know that I'll ever know.