Happiness, How I write, My Former Marriage

    I wonder if some of the least fortunate people are possibly the most happy -- or at least equally as happy as anyone else.
It's one of those weird things that I believe is governed by the law of relativity. I have explored the theory that there is only a fraction of people in society that is moderately fulfilled or happy; maybe like 15%. And that 15% is the same regardless of gender, race, wealth, social status, or leisure time. Maybe that number is way too high though. Regardless...
    No matter what, it seems that there is just a a fractional piece of humanity that is happy, and maybe nothing will change that. But at the same time, people go through seasons in their lives, happy times and rough times; the same people aren't happy or unhappy all the time. I could lose my mind thinking about this. I could write and write and write, which is what I do every day anyway.
    The writing process has totally overtaken me. I've so absorbed into this work, it's like I'm in a trance. I think the best analogy is an oil painting, in which paint is layered on top of itself until the work becomes practically three dimensional. I follow a certain guide in my head, like an outline of the story, or a map of the story I envision, and I sketch that map to learn what it looks like. I sketch it all out as simply as possible onto just one page or two just so I can see what the thing looks like from far away.     This outline gets re-drawn over and over again as I progress with all the details -- the actual writing process.
    With a general idea or a vague outline as my map, I begin with the details. And I start usually at the beginning of the story. I concentrate on each little incident of the story I have seen in my head, the story I have outlined. As little incidents build in my mind, I see the details of how things look, what things sound like, what people say. I hear the narrator speaking within me.
    As far as narration, I spent a lot of the first year of the writing process just experimenting with the correct narrative voice. I wrote section after section in different voices and styles trying to find the true character.
    Drawing the details is a long process. I work on one chapter at a time, one section at a time, and eventually one thought at a time. I become so present during this, that it's as if I'm in a trance. I get lost within the story. I see everything vividly. I feel the emotions and the conditions. I feel wet if writing about getting stuck in the rain. I feel cold when describing a bitter fall breeze.
    Once the writing process became comfortable for me, i've been able to do it without forcing anything, without clenching or cramping. It still gets painful but now doing the writing is like breathing, as natural as a heart beat. The work continues to evolve, as it will until I slam the gavel on it. Except for the last twenty pages, the book is mostly finished and probably won't be re-written again. The last twenty pages are the least painted part of the picture. That last section has been drawn but I haven't dabbed on most of the brush strokes yet. They are a little light both in description and in depth of meaning. They also don't sound natural yet.
    So now, I spend several hours a day painting (and painting on top of) the last twenty pages. It's more a less a constant re-write of the last twenty pages until they are even with the rest of the painting.
    In a lot of ways, the work chases me. I cannot get away from it. No matter what I'm doing, part of my brain is still living in the story, wandering around lost and begging for my full attention, my guidance through the wilderness of an uncertain life.
    I fought like hell to contain my work, to separate my work time and my personal time. Specifically during the six months I was married, I tried not to be a slave to my work. The problem was, I like my work. As painful and as addictive and as fruitless it can be at times, I love it. I chose to become a novelist for two reasons: One, I wanted to dedicate myself to a project that would demand all of me. I wanted to be tested. I wanted something that could threaten me, something that I thought might have the strength to kill me. I respect a job like that. That's first reason I chose to be a novelist.
    The second reason I chose to do this is because I wanted freedom. I figured if I could become a successful author, I could get away with anything I want. I could be totally untethered from the bounds of society.
    If there's a third reason I chose to be a novelist, it is because I thought I could do it better than anyone else. Rather, I feel like what I am doing is something that I and I alone can accomplish.
    I know that that's incredibly egotistical, but I wanted to create something that otherwise would not have existed had I not been alive to make it.
    It's taken a toll on my life -- I suppose anything we dedicate ourselves to must.
Living this lifestyle has completely destroyed my personal and social life. Most people stay at arm's length, or maybe I keep them there. I'm sure that if or when I become more successful at this, and I become better known, my personal life will not improve.
    It's hard to have normal conversations when you have mind-bending ideas sprinting through your head. And it's hard to maintain relationships when you're in a new city every few months. And it's hard for me to be navigate between me and my brand; though I think I have overcome most of the major problems of that trouble.
    Personal relationships have struggled most. As I said before, I was married for six months. It was a tumultuous relationship. We were either all over one another or at each other's throats.
    Our marriage itself came about in an odd way. I met her and was in love with her right away. It was mutual. It took only a moment for us to fall in love. I never wanted her to leave me. And I knew, with my life as it is, that I would probably leave and never see her again. So we eloped nine days after we met.
    I've never stopped loving her, but marriage was hell on me. I felt responsible for making her happy, responsible for providing a proper home for her and a proper lifestyle. I didn't want her to have to live like a bum, which I was more or less having to do at the time because I had so little money. I felt horrible for her to be so poor with me. For the first time, I asked my parents for money.
    My wife wanted me around all the time. I couldn't spend enough time alone. She never wanted me to travel long term without her.
    I live to travel alone. My whole life is about traveling alone, about walking to the outside so I can look in. So, on the day of our six month anniversary, I told her I needed to leave, that I loved her and always would, but I needed to go.
    I drove alone back to VA (we were living in San Francisco). I actually made the drive in something like 48 hours. I moved into my mom's basement for six months. Signed the divorce paperwork through the mail, wallowed through a lot of sadness and attempted to write, though it didn't work particularly well.
    I'm certain now that I made the right decision, though it took me almost a whole year to feel certain, and honestly, had I stayed, maybe I would be certain now that staying was the right decision too.
    I don't know. Life is a crapshoot sometimes, or so it seems.
    It was the right decision though. The right decision for me.
    What I learned is... at least at this point in my life, I've dedicated myself to this life I'm creating -- the novel writing, the career I'm building. As I said, I'm almost completely absorbed by it and I feel like I need to be in order to write the types of books I want to write; though I'm sure I'll go through seasons in my life where other things are more important to me.
    Ang, my former wife, always made me feel bad about being so into my work. I even questioned it with her for a while, and I continued to question it months after I left her. Eventually, I just decided that I love being into my work. That's why I'm doing it. That's why I started. I set out to be the greatest... the greatest I can be.
    I felt like I owed it to myself to go all out at my writing and my career. I knew I would always wonder what I would have been had I not sidetracked myself with a wife -- especially a wife who wanted kids as badly as Ang did.
I don't know about anything, except that I am in the right place now.
   Sorry I went on and on. Really nice to pour all of that onto the page. I can breathe again.
Thanks,
P