On Wednesday evening I trekked to Webster Hall in downtown Manhattan to see Chuck Palahniuk read and talk. Chuck was one of my instructors at Clarion West and he’s always entertaining, so I thought I would check it out.

It’s been ages since I’ve been to Webster Hall and the last time was basically to go clubbing with some friends. It was strange to be there for a reading, but Chuck packed them into the place, and all the seats filled early so that some people had to stand on the periphery.

Less of a reading and more of a comedy show, Chuck talked about some of his wacky experiences and read us some fairy tales written in the same vein as the main character from Pygmy. Amy Hempel was supposed to be there interviewing him, but she had a family emergency and couldn’t make it, which was disappointing but understandable. Instead his editor came out to pick up the slack, though really Chuck didn’t need it. His answers to the questions were interesting, but hardly the draw of the show. It was his off-the cuff comments and stories that sparked. At one point he answered a cell phone call that was supposed to be from Maya Angelou. It was a strange night. And enjoyable.

But it had one additional effect aside from just entertainment.

Lately I’ve been feeling disenchanted with the whole writing process. I continue to garner rejections and the last few came on stories I was proud of. The last one came so quickly that I assumed it must have gone over like a steaming turd. And I’m surrounded by gifted, talented people, all the time, who are achieving wonderful things. I don’t begrudge them their success, and they deserve all of that and more. I’m proud of my friends. But it makes me want what they have all the more. To stand tall in that company. Yet lately I seem to still be misfiring.

Where Chuck comes into this is one of his answers during the Q&A. The question was fairly standard, about how he sees himself in response to the community of mainstream literature, and the answer was even more standard, but it resonated for me. Chuck said that he writes for himself. He writes because it’s fun and he loves it and he doesn’t worry about whether people will like it and he doesn’t worry about pleasing an audience. Now whether that’s true or not, and it’s likely to be because he can afford to do that, one thing hit me from that – I forgot how enjoyable and how fulfilling the writing was. I was looking so far down the road, at where the story would end up, worrying whether it would be received well or be rejected, that I wasn’t appreciating the process of doing it. And that was a sobering realization. Because I do love doing it. And I can never really stop myself. And so I might as well just enjoy the process and focus on that. I’ll continue to send my stories out, but that’s not where my head should be all the time. My head should be in the writing along with everything else.

Simple, I know, but a potent reminder. Maybe I should get it tattooed on my arm…