This Dangerous Obsession

Patty here…

“A work in progress quickly becomes feral. It reverts to a wild state overnight. It is barely domesticated, a mustang on which you one day fastened a halter, but which now you cannot catch. It is a lion you cage in your study. As the work grows, it gets harder to control; it is a lion growing in strength. You must visit it every day and reassert your mastery over it. If you skip a day, you are, quite rightly afraid to open the door to its room.” —Annie Dillard (1945-), U.S. author

I used to take out-of-town guests to the Venice Beach boardwalk on Sunday afternoons to see the guy who juggled chainsaws.



My guests would watch in amusement, sometimes horror as the juggler pulled the cords and threw the chainsaws into the air. I knew what they were thinking. What will happen if his timing is off? I’m sure they went back to their homes in Minnesota or Milan thinking the juggler was mad to court this high-risk fling.

I often feel like that juggler, especially now that I’m writing my fourth novel. I’m past the stage in which I have thrown the chainsaws into the air. Now I must bring each one down with the skill of a master juggler. I have done this stunt three times before, but with this fourth book I feel certain I cannot do it again.

“All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author

I work out with a Pilates trainer every week, not because it’s good for my body, though it is. It’s because of Brigitta, she of the contagious laughter and wisdom beyond her years.



She is more therapist than trainer. She is always willing to listen while I whine about writing books, how hard it is, and how much I give up to sit in front of a computer screen in a room that is silent except for the whirring of a dozen chainsaw blades. Whining feels good. It’s worth the price of admission. I tell her I will never finish this book. How can I? I am a writer of little talent whose career is destined for the remainder bin. “You said the same thing when you were writing the last book,” she says. Sometimes the price of admission comes with a dose of reality.

“But the words aren’t good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
But with the wings of a wren.” —Anne Sexton (1928-1974), U.S. poet

I am in a place in the book where I have so many chainsaws in the air I can’t remember where they are. I worry that one of them might fall from the sky and cut off my arm. I should be able to remember these details but I can’t. I wonder if it’s the beginning of Alzheimer’s. The upside is I will have an excuse for not finishing this book. My editor will be sad. Better yet, she will not make me return my advance. A darker thought intrudes. What if my memory loss is due to entrenched resistance? If so, I must regain control. The solution is clear. I make a flowchart.

I write, “Eugene is ther— My computer thinks I mean to write Theresa Schwegel, a name it has found in my address book. Without asking, it finishes my sentence. “Eugene is Theresa Schwegel.” No. No! Eugene is not Theresa Schwegel. That is not at all what I intended to write. I delete the sentence and try again. Three tries later I have, “Eugene is there when Tucker arrives.” I look at the sentence again. I tell myself the words don’t have to fly with wings of eagles. This is only a flowchart. But “Eugene is Theresa Schwegel” promises a twisty new plot idea. It’s fresh. Intriguing. It is also galling to admit that a computer with a robotic memory for addresses is more creative than I am.

“Even in the midst of love-making, writers are working on the description.” —Mason Cooley (1927-) U.S. aphorist

Writing is a dangerous obsession. When I am in the throes of creating a novel the work controls everything. One Friday night I have tickets to the theatre. Before the play I go to dinner at Patina on the plaza of the Music Center. This is not negotiable. Dinner at Patina is more important than Twelve Angry Men. Why? Because Patina is where Tucker meets a man who will change her life and because of that I must know if the tablecloths are linen or paper, if a quiet conversation can be heard above the noise of traffic, if the umbrellas are in the up or down position, and if there are lights twinkling in the trees that look like monster broccoli. At dinner I try to be witty and attentive, but all the while I am jotting notes on the paper napkin in my lap.



“For us there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.” —T.S. Eliot (1877-1965), U.S. born-British poet, critic



I wish I could take these sentiments to heart, but the truth is I juggle chainsaws for a living. For me, it is that hard and the rest is my business and I worry about it all the time.

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