Dear Reader,

Most writers compose their version of this story after publication of a work. I’ve chosen to get it out of the way now.

I have, over many months, composed a series of stories–many of them have already been published here–and decided approximately two months ago to set a deadline of June 30, 2011, for publication of a collection of said stories. That date has come and gone and my book has not been published.

Am I worried? A little.

I’ve gone from being on edge to completely relaxed and back again many times over three days since my deadline blew up in my face. Still worried? Not so much. It’ll come; I just had to learn some lessons.

All in all, I was taught a valuable thing: moderation. I set a two-month deadline for publication of a top-notch (well, I worked at it, let’s put it that way) compilation of stories. Not all of the stories were out of first draft status, and not all were completed. Hell, I had to cut two because I simply ran out of time. I juggle a 40-hour night-job, three (more soon) kids, a wonderful wife, Cub Scouts, sports, searching for a new house to buy, and a whole slew of other things. So does everyone else. I get that part.

One of the best things a writer can do for his or her writing is to set a schedule. Create time and space for regular writing. It trains your body to get in the mood. I leave for work at the same time every day, so when it is nearly time, my body says: “Shower, check. Feed dogs, check. Kiss wife and kids, check. Done.”

Unfortunately, my writing schedule hasn’t ever been that rigorous.

Hemingway, writing.

I’ve been a writer for many years. In the good old days, when I just carried around a notebook and wrote and wrote until my fingers bled, I wrote poetry. I wrote prose. I wrote short little blurbs of first-draft-is-final-draft emotion that stuck on the page and reminded me of… what? Reminded me that I was on a schedule? Reminded me that this was something I’ve been doing forever and want to keep doing forever? No. It was my body saying something that I didn’t listen to: “Hey dumbass, you’ve got a passion for this.”

So of course, when something better came along, like girls at college, or a real grown-up job, or my family,  I set down the writing and went and fiddled somewhere else. Something else was always more important than the writing, more important than the art.

Eventually, I found myself spiraling down a shaft of worry, of ill-focus, of despair, and eventually learned that it was the artistic portion of myself telling me that I needed to let my creative jism burst across the bosom of reality. I needed to make art, my body would say, I needed to create, and I need it now and if you don’t let me do this I’m going to make it very difficult for you to succeed at anything else, no matter how desperate you are to succeed.

Once the climax was achieved, life would go back to normal. I’d work, I’d play with my kids, I’d make love to my wife.

But the cycle starts over, then.

How does all this tie in to the idea of moderation? I just claimed that waiting for the burst of creation is fulfilling, didn’t I? Well, yes. And no. It is fulfilling, for a time. It is fulfilling for that moments, those moments, that the art is spraying from your pen. When it is not fulfilling is during the moments that make up the in-between-times. I’m not talking about the times where I work, or I play with my kids, or I make love to my wife. Those things are important. But isn’t the art important, too?

Yes, art is important. Art is important enough that it has been a driving societal force for thousands of years, and today it is such a large and enticing place to live and work that hundreds of thousands of “starving artist” types willingly sacrifice themselves and their own happiness for their art. Debate is open on whether that leads to good art or not.

I’m happy with my job, with my family, and with my life in general. If that artsy-fartsy bone wasn’t there buried in my limbic system and controlling every aspect of my character when I don’t let it out for a walk from time to time, then my life would be perfect and complete.

The art is there, the creation is inside, and I have to let it out, but when I let it burst from me like a demon only when it is necessary to do so, then I’m hurting myself. I can’t deny myself the time to accomplish something and give it my stamp of approval and then present it for the world and expect it to be successful. I can’t deny myself the opportunity to do my best.

I thought I had done my best on the manuscript for Stories, up until several days ago when @portiaalex threw me a loop on a literary device that I thought was effective, but ended up confusing and muddled. Now, I have significant rewrites to do! (Thank you, @portiaalex, for saving me from myself.)

In moderation, I broaden the understanding of the things I write. I spend less time in one sitting, but more time spread out through the week, and have a better understanding of what my story is, what my purpose is for writing. By not taking a four-hour chunk on Sunday, but five forty-five-minute segments during the week, I get to spend more time in my story, and less time fiddling around trying to find where I was the last time I left.

I have decided to push the publication deadline back a month, because I have a few more edits to make, so that I can make this little bit of what I call art the best I can. End of time, we’ll call it. Wish me luck.

It makes me happy to know that my deadline has been pushed back because I’m taking the time to make it right, and by-golly, Dear Reader, I hope you enjoy it!