Artists, that’s what we sign up for.

And I thought it was just cynical-me. Nope. Add divinely distracted and blessedly unrested to the list of writer traits that includes extreme introversion, militant self-discipline, infinite grit, and owning a cat.

Here’s how unrest plays out. I think: I should see Friend X. Then I think: I can’t see Friend X. I won’t be able to write that day if I see Friend X. Then I think: Kelly, you are are not a very relational person. I ask myself, would I see X if I already had an agent, if I were not full of divine dissatisfaction? I then delude myself that agented-me would make time for her.

I wrote an If-I-Get-Agented List. One of the points was this:

If I were agented, I would work more on the creation of new works, revisions, and in general, spend more time ass-in-chair.

That’s the exact opposite of seeing Friend X. Incidentally, I also said I wouldn’t feel the pressure to get a cat if I got an agent. I don’t have one presently, and I fear it’s holding me back. I can’t even make time to relate with a cat. My writer friends (God bless them) put up with my blessed unrest as I wave the timer like an air marshal to keep our zoom meetings on task. If you want to relate, do it on Facebook. (Joking, but only a little.)

I’m not sure Kathryn meant the unrest that comes with one’s position in the writing journey. She may have meant the unrest with a specific work in progress. I feel that, too, especially when I read a brilliant story. I think, I wish I could write that well. Maybe in a decade, I will. If I don’t give up.

Many writers do give up. Kathryn Craft’s recent post states that the writing life promises …constant battles with self-doubt, existential angst, and financial instability. I wouldn’t blame anyone for quitting. I have another friend who is giving up on her writing right now. She’s discouraged because…she found out that writing is harder than she had hoped. She kept sliding down the steep learning curve and had no more energy for healing her scrapes and then figuring out how to start climbing again. All of us go through this at some point, as the initial euphoria of discovering our creative selves is inevitably supplanted by the doubt that we may never master the skills needed to be a good writer.

Kathryn invokes Martha Graham, mother of modern dance, to speak to the artist’s challenges. Have I mentioned I have sweet memories of my modern dance troupe from college? I’ll never forget the first time I heard “Canon in D.” Our instructor, the age-defying, gorgeous, dynamo Dana Snyder showed us noob dancers a simple choreography to go with the song, and I tell you, I felt the vitality Graham describes, the life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action. They were steps. It was a song. Together, it was transcendental. Before college, I was a gymnast, so I was accustomed to rhythm and movement, but until that day in the studio, I’d never felt beautiful. “Canon in D” and me. Beautiful.

And it wasn’t just me. I could see my mates in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. All the different shapes of us, the lines divergent but similarly moved by the melody. Other forms of dance entertain and impress. Modern dance seeks to tell a story or communicate an idea or feeling. I choreographed a dance to Depeche Mode’s “The Things You Said.” We all wore tattered black dresses, and it was quite dark. Not much has changed. Oh what am I saying?! Everything’s changed, but I still have this fascination with the edge and the lessons we learn there.

As to self-acceptance, Craft writes: …your work will never feel satisfactory, because without that self-critical element, we’d never try to improve. Our yearning to accomplish more is what makes it possible to endure a learning process that for quite some time may offer little promise of external reward. Writing for publication is a front-loaded endeavor to the extreme.

Ah yes. Front-loaded. What a nice way to say you’ll beat your ego into pulpy roadkill for a few years (ok, a decade) while you gather your requisite hundred-plus rejections. But on the flip side, what freedom writers have! Do I work on this new story, face the blank page (cringe) or do I go into my cob-webby crawlspace and unearth my old modern dance video to put in this post? The order in which I work determines whether I feed my ego (dance video) or my craft (blank page).

[Two hours later.]

I did it. Faced the blank page for 1.5 hours. Back now, and wanting to find the music video so I can have a record here, in this place, that I can watch and remember. Ordering your chores according to motivation is something I found in James Clear’s Atomic Habits. The basic premise is: don’t allow yourself the reward until you’ve done the work. Stack your habits in such a way as to elicit the most productivity. As in, no checking your phone until you meditate. Can you imagine? I have a friend who won’t allow herself to put on clothing until she works out. She’s not a writer, but with devotion like that, she should be.

[The next day.]

I had to stop writing after that last sentence and found that the video was not important enough to invest the time. Sure, it would have been gratifying to remember how lovely I once could move, but is it helpful? Will posting it get me where I want to go? The unrest again, ordering my day.

This whole post is really just an excuse to lead you to Kathryn’s post, so I hope you’ll read it in full. And sign up for Writer Unboxed. For fun, I’m sharing my If-I’m-Agented List. I wrote it because I want to act like I’m already agented. In order to do that, I had to spend time thinking about how my mind would shift if I got to that next level. Here it is.

If I was agented (in the order they came to me):

• I would not get a part-time job.
• I would work more on the creation of new works, revisions, and in general spend more time ass-in-chair.
• I would tell everyone! God, help me not be arrogant if it ever happens.
• I would ask for and appreciate the editorial help and industry guidance.
• I would upgrade my HWA status and volunteer to mentor. And sign up for SFWA.
• I would feel legitimized. Sad, but true. But I would also feel I didn’t give up and…yay!
• I might not want a cat. After all, if the lack of a cat’s not standing in my way…?

PS I love cats. And dogs. But my last two were the best ever, and I fear I’ll just call any new pets Not-Kikki & Not-Abbott and hate them for not being amazing.