Uh Oh.

I know my process is really up-and-down with fabulous writing days followed by crapola writing days of crippling self-doubt. But yesterday kinda put me through the wringer. It was a day of fabulous writing that led to crippling self-doubt. A new animal.

I worked on the book and decided to write a section about how Paris has a life of its own. The city is a character. Having just read Henry Miller, I began with the following sentences:

Henry Miller said Paris was a whore. I say she's a high-maintenance trust fund bitch.

And then I went on to describe how I always felt like the cool stuff was just out of my reach, around the corner or at some party going on someplace else. My plan was to write a snarky-funny extended metaphor comparing the city to those godawful women who are dressed to the nines and expect men to fling diamonds at them with one hand while opening car doors with the other. And then they still don't give it up. No matter how much you give her, she'll always want more.

Only something else happened. As it does when you are working with creative forces that are larger than you. As I was writing, a little, swirling rabbit hole opened up in front of me. The hole was labeled The Big, Scary Truth. So I went down it. My writing turned darker and went into a corner of my bile duct I haven't ventured into in a long time. In other words, my writing dredged up some dark, yucky personal stuff. Which actually made for great writing, but it's left me feeling weird.

The piece ended up illustrating how I've settled in life. The places where I've been too insecure, afraid, whatever, to ask for more. To demand more. Not in a high-maintenance trust fund bitch kind of way. In the way that we only receive what we believe we are worth.

And for the rest of the day I was not a happy camper. I felt haunted and unsatisfied, critical and bitchy. I went to bed wondering what kind of mess I've made of my life and then I couldn't sleep.

This disturbs me.

It disturbs me to think that I've settled, sure. But, it also disturbs me that the writing was good. It was the kind of writing that is so honest it scares you. Why would good writing trouble me? Because it wrecked an otherwise okay Monday. Because I might need therapy if I plan on doing any more of it. Or at least find some way to 'come down' afterward.

This is one of the reasons why writing is hard: being completely, relentlessly honest can be painful and upsetting. And these are the choices you have to make as an artist: to be honest no matter what it takes or to gloss over the truth for a cheap laugh. I can't help thinking that accountants don't ever feel like this after a good day's work. Is this what 'taking your work home with you' means for a writer?