How many writer’s bookshelves include a dusty copy of What I Talk About When I Talk About Running? Haruki Murakami’s slim book is not a page-turner, but it is a dive into how writing is a marathon, and running is a creative act. Buying a copy as a clueless not-yet-writer didn’t help me feel like I could write fiction — not even close. But it felt like an author was talking to me as he laced up his shoes, saying, “The road’s here when you’re ready.”
I think of marathons sometimes. Not when I write, my chin doubled against my neck, my hands hammering faded laptop keys as I misspell “receive” for the thousandth time. When I send my writing to be read, that’s where endurance really comes in. You have to ride out the silence of waiting. Mute your own mind saying, “You submitted that?” Then friends find out you’re writing. Some ask to read it. Some even do so genuinely. You send it to them. “It’s in your inbox,” you say casually after a few days. Eventually they reply: “Great attempt.” They say, “Wait, so what happens to the main character?” And, “Did you mean to end the piece like that?” And, “Aww, I felt so sorry for the sick grandma — so anyway, at work today . . .”
Two myths get conflated in my mind. Sisyphus and Prometheus. Prometheus stole fire and gave it to mortals. His punishment: to be chained to a rock and have his regenerating liver pecked out by an eagle every morning for eternity. Sisyphus cheated death. His punishment: to roll a rock up a hill for eternity, only to have it tumble back down every night.
These figures suffer a ruthless passing of time in which the same thing happens day after day. What resonates is not just that these mythical men endure. It’s that they do so alone, cheerfully spitting on their hands to shoulder the stone, calmly lifting their heads as wings crest the horizon.
By conflating these myths, I can conflate the lessons. Camus wrote that we “must imagine Sisyphus happy” with his toil (impossible not to imagine Camus saying this with a Gallic shrug while smoking a Gitanes). What do we gain when we imagine Sisyphus with a smile? We can imagine ourselves, if not happy, then content to be stuck in a loop where it’s just us and the rock of the keyboard.
And Prometheus? We must imagine how he endures the immovable stone at his back, the beak dipping down again and again. Maybe he stokes a little fire inside him that says, “I had to do what I did. I believe in this story. That’s why I can keep going.” Maybe the eagle isn’t a curse, but a friend, a muse that visits every day. We have to cuff ourselves to our desks every day, grit our teeth and say, “Let’s begin.”
During one six-month period I submitted a dozen stories to, oh, maybe five times that number of publications. Like a runner on a trail, I threaded my way online, hunting for places that would accept, or even consider, what I had written. This was not as easy as you’d think. You need to thread the needle of open submission seasons, ponder the compound value of paying multiple editors to read your work while your income is zero. Phrases start to flare like neon onscreen as you see them again and again.
Small reading fee of eighteen dollars.
Submissions are now closed.
Unfortunately, the pandemic hit us hard, and we are on indefinite hiatus.
We value the craft of the written word. Payment is a free copy of our magazine.
We endeavor to read your piece within five months (though it may be longer).
We do not accept simultaneous submissions.
We regret that your piece is not for us.
We must imagine Sisyphus happy, maybe even chuckling a little at the double meaning of “submit.” We must imagine that he would keep writing.
Pretend you’re in someone’s home, a friend of a friend. You’re bored and decide to play a little game: Deduce whether that person is a writer or imagines he could be one someday. Does he have Orwell’s Why I Write on his shelf? Then there’s your answer.
Fantasies are like a virus in the bloodstream, an inescapable part of being a writer. When you’re not willing a story into being, you’re willing your success into being. You imagine that reply coming from Harper’s or The Paris Review, or that achingly cool European journal full of poems you don’t understand. Maybe they’ve snuck the word “incandescent” in there. You start to imagine your thank-you speech for the Booker Prize. You’ll chuckle loudly and begin to recite it in your head: “Oh, that one English teacher who believed in me. . . . Oh, the quiet joy of reading Orwell for the first time, that taciturn icon who battered away at typewriter keys even when tuberculosis sucked the air from his lungs.”
Sometimes I daydream about one-upping Orwell and publishing Why I Keep Writing. It sells poorly at first. Then a movement gathers. Emails trickle in that say, “This book spoke to me.” A small but respected indie press picks it up. The Orwell Foundation reviews it, calls it a worthy successor. They don’t use the word “incandescent,” but I can tell they want to. Colin Farrell plays me in the movie.
We must imagine Sisyphus had such fantasies.
For years I’ve worked in content marketing, copywriting and creating ideas for multinational brands. It is a perfect training ground to cultivate endurance, because even if client feedback makes no sense, you have to pretend it does. “Hmm, interesting suggestion — we could double the word count of this script, but will people watch a six-minute video about life insurance?”
Here’s something you probably already know about the marketing industry: Sometimes, brand communications people ask us to make changes because they feel they have to, not because changes are needed. And why not? If the content is pretty much right the first time, it devalues their role. So, they make their suggestions, and you make your changes. Your Word doc file names mushroom, week by week: _v3. _v8. _v11feedback_finaledits. _v16final. _v18final_ed.
Murakami would say it’s all good training: You think getting that novel in your head onto the page won’t feel like a marathon.
The challenge of writing stories for yourself is, in the end you are alone. You have to drive yourself against the rock again and again. At the risk of sounding like an Instagram caption, you have to guard your internal fire, stoke the heat of your enthusiasm, because nobody else will.
The joy of writing for yourself is, in the end you are alone. You get to ignore the suggestions you don’t agree with. You get to sit in a chair for hours and lose yourself in flow. You get a rejection. It says, “It’s not right for us at this time, but we’d love to read what you write next.” You are Sisyphus, and you’re OK with that.
Daniel Seifert’s writing has appeared in The New York Times, Consequence, The Sun and Gulf Coast. His work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and twice shortlisted for the Bridport Prize. He lives in Singapore and is working on a novel. Wish him luck on X @DanSeifwrites.