Thoughts of virtue, sacrifice, and vows of poverty have been hanging about lately, and while I read about them in a context that is not about writing, I am certainly capable of making that leap. For the moment I’m interested in sacrifice…
and I’ll get to the point in a roundabout way.
One of my fellow Peace Corps Volunteers (from many moons ago) was so long good-looking that I couldn’t even say hello to him when we first met. I don’t think anyone that handsome had ever said hello to me first unless the conversation involved questions such as, “Can I take your order now?” or “Did you find everything okay.” Anyway, a few days and this out-of-my-league panic disappeared on the winds, because he soon became the weird guy who would be first in line to buy a bed of nails if one were on offer. As volunteers in Eastern Europe he believed we all had it too easy and that the only remedy for this was to search for ways to be miserable.
Now, there are people who forsake all their worldly goods for a cause or a belief. I admire and am intimidated by these people. There are people who have no worldly to give up because they have no opportunity to get them–hey, poverty is not a spiritual lifestyle. There are those people who play at being poor because they want to show how virtuous, righteous, or something-uous they are. Then there are the rest of us.
My solidly-middle-class-from-a-stable-family fellow PCV wanted to live a monastic-type life and there were several ways he went about it. I went to visit our growing-less-gorgeous-by-the-sacrifice PCV (let’s call him G), and two things about that visit I’ve never forgotten. Most doors between rooms in Bulgarian apartments (in my experience anyway) have a sheet of glass in them so that you have a doorframe with a big window. G had a door with a broken sheet of glass. Imagine a jagged sheet of glass as door. See the glittering edges that could go all the way through your body? Good. He hadd tossed a shirt over the mess instead of getting it repaired. This glass could have impaled a person. But he thought maybe he wouldnt’ get it fixed for a while because it didn’t seem right to spend the money on his door when he could give that money away. Well, yeah, but I suggested the door was dangerous (unless you like broken glass on a hinge), but he just shrugged and said something about the locals having much more dangerous lives. Yeah, maybe, but not on purpose!
The second thing–G decided to offer his guests grape juice. Fresh grape juice hand-squeezed by him. He stood at his sink and pushed grapes through a strainer, picked out the seeds and the skins, and after about 20 minutes of this had a few spoonfuls of juice. I actually tried to help, and let me say that fresh squeezed orange juice is a wonderful thing. Fresh squeezed grape juice is bound to have bits of skin from your knuckles thrown in. But he insisted this was more authentic. Nevermind that any Bulgarian would go to the corner shop and buy a box of grape juice–real, tasty, natural grape juice.
After standing next to a guy working up a sweat over getting the grape skins from the strainer (they clog it up!) and the only way out is through a door of broken glass–he’s not good-looking anymore. But is he a better person? Is he? Am I mired in my material-comforts lifestyle? Okay, I probably am, but making grape juice won’t solve that problem.
So…when is sacrifice worth it? My mother warned to be careful what you chose to sacrifice and for whom or it would lead to resentment (damn grapes). And how does this connect to writing? Maybe it doesn’t, except that I’m going to make it connect and pursuing a writer’s life (and not just for the month of November) does find sacrifices along the way.
There are friendships I haven’t pursued, sleep (and probably health) I have lost, focus in the present that has gone a tad askew. But I want to write so much that I don’t really care–maybe then they aren’t sacrifices. My family sacrifices–they lose a certain amount of attention and suffer my bad moods (My writing is terrible and why are you driving me crazy?). I tell lies. (What did you do last night? Nothing.) I fish for compliments. (I can’t write! I shouldn’t be doing this! No, dear, of course you can write. You’re a good writer.) I obsess. (My word cound 43,204. My word count is 43,982. My word count is 44,306.)
And the great conclusion that will wrap this up all pretty-like is where? I’ve no idea anymore. I lost that ribbon a few paragraphs ago. But I will at least ask, what do you sacrifice for the writing life?
Marta Bacon 
I would never have put your sacrifices for writing in the same category as G’s weird behaviour. It seems condescending to me, born of a sense of liberal guilt and the desire to look good rather than the desire to do anything useful. I mean, if he thinks the money for the window could be better spent elsewhere, what about the time spent squeezing grapes? It sounds like he just had no clue and was flailing to try and find some way to make himself feel better.
I mean, when I was in Bosnia I didn’t make a fuss when I could tell my veggie omelette was cooked in lard, because being vegetarian is a luxurious choice to be able to make. But it sounds like that dude was tying himself in knots and unable to act like the local people were just human beings, if that makes sense.
I don’t know about sacrifice for the writing life, because it doesn’t seem like a sacrifice in the same way I’m used to thinking of the word. Everyone struggles to find a balance among all the things they want out of life, and the things they are responsible for, and this is just a specific (and possibly more strange) incarnation of that.
The grape juice scence is HILARIOUS. That is truly funny.
As for sacrifice for writing, I also give up sleep sometimes and a certain amount of time with family and friends. Fortunately I have creative people in my life so they all sort of get it. I also neglect other hobbies because I’d rather write, which sometimes I think is unfortunate.
SBW, if you’re writing, it can’t be unfortunate…unless you were writing and your building was on fire and you didn’t get out in time because you were trying to decide between writing something like “he replied” or “he answered.” Oh, word choices!