Caught Between Short Stories and a Novel; A Blog Comparing Writing to Playing Basketball

Well, I started my day convinced that I was going to make progress on my novel…problem is: I have at least three ideas going, and slight progress made on all three. This is a problem because I don’t know which to work on, when. Then, I also have about five short stories in the works that desperately need attention, (mostly because they are of the short fiction genre and therefore closer to being “done”). This matters to me because it seems that I have a real problem “finishing”. For example, in addition to being a teacher and a writer, I also love the game of basketball—irregardless of the fact that I am not very good, offensively. I mean, I have pretty good court awareness, I’ve got a strong right-handed dribble drive, but I just can’t finish once I get to the hole. It is amazingly frustrating—to curl off a screen on the low block, get a pass, make a hard cut toward the basket, take two hard dribbles, cradle the ball until I get through traffic, bust out the finger-roll and…watch as the damn thing rolls off the rim. Use the backboard? Of course, but it doesn’t matter; it always rims off. I try to look at it holistically. (I always say, if I ever lose my hustle, I’m not going to play anymore; if I ever lose my desire to rebound, I’m quitting.) So, I don’t think I’m bad at it, and I still enjoy playing the game; my only true frustration in basketball is my inability to finish in the lane.

This all (loosely) relates to why I’m writing today because right now I’m very, very disappointed with my lack of “Product” as a writer. I can’t seem to be able to finish anything I start.

I claim to be a writer. I went to graduate school to obtain the auspicious/conspicuous Master of Fine Arts degree in “Creative Writing”. I enjoy the process—you know, the binge drinking, kick-start (six or eight cups of coffee in the morning or a sniff of Jack), the anticipation of pulling up the chair…the exhilaration of defiling that blank “slate” (cliché, I know, but humor me) with those first few overwrought words…and the gradual euphoric detachment you achieve once you get “into the flow” (again, I know). It is a process not unlike a basketball game (a metaphor I am tempted to draw out, but won’t because maybe you’re already tired of my little subjective correlation) in that there is anticipation, a moment of two of over-enthusiastic, perhaps zealous play, before settling into that comfortable second wind, during which many players end up getting, “in the zone”. The difference for me is that most of the games I play these days are just for fun. There is no reason to be too terribly competitive about the pick-up basketball games I get into every other Sunday night or so. If the five who happen to be on the same team make it to seven by ones, first, then they…win. Whoopee. But back when we had uniforms and fans—albeit, mostly they were just parents and a handful pretty basketball-ignorant cheerleaders—the gravity of the game was so much more intense…and winning (as much as all those oversensitive, anti-competition, home-school moms and dads would disagree) really was everything!

Ran out of time…more later…