For the last five years, I have been making a valiant effort to write a novel. Not a coming-of-age, small-town-girl-in-a-big-city, bildungsroman--oh no, that would be far too philistine for my tastes--rather, I've decided to designate myself as the author of the next great American fantasy novel, solely because fantasy is my favorite genre. It speaks to me, if you will.
However, it has come to my attention that I have literally nothing original to contribute to the fantasy lexicon. Nothing. This may sound absurd, since the defining quality of fantasy is its boundless opportunity for novelty, but in reality, fantasy (like any other genre) abides by a set of unspoken rules. You must have a hero or a heroine, for example (unless you're George R. R. Martin). Well, this poses a problem, as it makes your narrative inherently predictable. A story built around a single central character demands that that character survive all events of that story, thus eliminating any sense of jeopardy. Martin successfully circumvents this by having numerous "central" characters who are all equally likely to get offed, but Martin I am not. Another principle of fantasy by which it is particularly difficult to abide is the expectation that there will be a large-scale, epic battle scene at some point. Now, these are the sort of scenes that I love to read but hate to write. My forte is dialogue and character development, not endless paragraphs' worth of play-by-plays. So you see, I've encountered a bit of an impasse.
What's even worse is the fact that I truly believe that the greatest fantasy novels have already been written. What could I contribute that would surpass Tolkien? Would I be able to subvert a prototype that has withstood the test of many decades--and should that prototype be subverted in the first place?
Somewhat dejected, I halfheartedly considered writing my novel about something other than dragons and princesses and knights. How about a historical epic? Too much research required to do it right. A gentle contemporary novel about a dysfunctional family? Boring and insincere. A sexy murder mystery? Hmmm, now there was a possibility...but no, I'm too obtuse for murder mysteries; every mystery I've ever written has been woefully transparent. I felt burdened by the responsibility that one must shoulder when one decides to write a novel: the responsibility to entertain, to inspire, to communicate coherently and elegantly, and to strive for originality. The pressure of creating that elusive element of surprise and wonder that defines every great novel I've ever read began to suffocate me before I could even devise an outline.
I decided to blame med school, lacking as I was for any other explanation for this abrupt cessation of my formerly prolific writing career. Med school, I deemed, was robbing me of my creativity. All my energy was being diverted towards sustaining good grades, performing tasks related to hygiene, and nurturing relationships with loved ones. For God's sake, before med school, I was able to write a song in fifteen minutes. A good song, at that! Nowadays, when I sit down at the keyboard to write a song, the phrase "twat waffle" keeps buzzing bleakly in my ears and I can write nothing of value. There is simply no room in my life for hobbies! Or so I convinced myself, in order to avoid taking responsibility for my own raging case of writer's block.
In reality, it would appear that I'm gradually starving my creative spirit to death by simply not writing frequently enough. (Similarly, I'm bludgeoning my music chops by not playing enough...or at all.) Creative muscles, like any other muscles, need to be kept in shape, or they will atrophy and leave you weak and talentless. I fear that, if I continue along this trajectory, my writer's block will devolve into full-blown Absence of Talent. The problem is, while med school is clearly not the SOLE perpetrator, being generally rather busy doesn't do much in terms of providing creative outlets. When I come home after a long day of rectal exams and verbal abuse, I generally feel inclined to avoid expending any more mental and emotional energy by eating Nutella and watching The Real Housewives of Atlanta. Failure to replenish these energy stores generally results in tearful breakdowns and 23-hour sleeping benders.
One must always try to define one's priorities in life, and it appears that I've made the unfortunate and unwitting decision to strike writing off my list of priorities. But was this decision for the best? Or will I be a better doctor if I continue to challenge myself to be well-rounded?
Perhaps this is a sign that I should go back to basics and write my own story, in true philistine form: a touching tale of a curly-haired Indian girl raised on the East Coast of America who grows up to possess balls of steel and talk a lot of shit while hiding many neuroses from the general public. Would you read that? No? Damn.
