There are an unlimited amount of things I'd rather do than write...which is precisely why I'm taking this class. My writing muscle is not well exercised. I certainly cannot write at will, and it seems when we pause to write in class that everyone is inspired to write and write while I'm the first to put down my pen. The process of writing feels excruciating, as if I'm trying to pull something out of depths that I don't understand how to navigate. But when I can pull those thoughts out, it feels good. And I know myself well enough to know that I need to create a space, a structure, a deadline for deliberate writing. Otherwise I won't do it.
Meanwhile, some of the things I'd rather be doing include....
Run, garden, work, cook, read, be with my family, paddleboard, listen to podcasts and NPR.
Last fall, I visited my daughter, Liz, during her last year at GWU in DC. We toured the NPR studio together - a mountaintop experience!
One way to approach this is the phrase "mind dump"--we simply dump out on paper or screen what we notice flitting through our minds. If we go for ten minutes, we may later see one brilliant phrase that makes it--to us, personally--worth it. Or perhaps there are several lines a week later that strike us as rich. Like Natalie says, it's like runners who warm up and stretch before heading out for an hour run.
ReplyDeleteHere's a slightly reworked mind dump of mine from a cafe in Clayton autumn 1995--
ReplyDeleteDay in The Life/3
I ask, “Can you stay another 15 minutes, so I can get a shower?”
I remove Mev’s shower seat from the tub so I can shower.
I make a mug of French Vanilla coffee with 4 tablespoons of the powder to give me yet another morning kick.
I tell Mev she’s loved.
I listen to Benny Goodman’s small-group version of “After You’ve Gone.”
I stack up all the mail on the desk.
I look ahead to section B of the New York Times to see which books are being reviewed.
I pick up a pair of boxers and take them from my dresser, now located in the kitchen (the hospital bed in the bedroom necessitated this dislocation), to the bathroom.
I go on-line to check hopeful email messages.
I say hello to Beth Obertino who usually crosses my path at one point or another (“She’s so congenial!”).
I put the cats down in the basement after they’ve mangled the ornaments on the Christmas tree.
I listen to Shane MacGowan and Sinead O’Connor’s duet of “Haunted” five consecutive times.
I calculate how much money there is.
I uneasily notice the healthy smile of J, the luscious hair of M, and the girlishness of S.
I thank at least 12 times one or another group of persons.
I summon the same old shower fantasy.
I wonder when I will be able to resume my work.
I say, “Would you please stop whispering, I’m going crazy around here.”
I drop the latest stack of opened (and read to Mev) mail into the full mailbox between the printer stand and my desk.
I grind down Mev’s decadron for easier use with the syringe.
I look at my desk’s array of dictionaries, readers’ companions, digests, and literary texts and wonder if I should just put them all away on the shelves.
I put on for the sixth out of seven days my black jeans.
I use my electric razor.
I pop some kind of anti-biotic, decongestant, Tylenol, Sinu-tab, or I gulp Robitusson.
I cough and blow gunk out of my nose.
I envision liberty and license.
I forget to say my gathas.
I change Mev’s diapers.
I write down seven messages from the answering machine.
I remove people’s coats, scarves, purses, etc. from my desk, the last private property I feel I have.
I don’t move the three cameras on the most disorganized bookshelf.
I lift Mev to and from the bed, wheelchair, couch and portable commode.
I look at the piano with eyes of longing.
I notice that visitors don’t put back glasses where we had them.
I let other people take Mev’s temperature, give her pills, sit with her in her hospital bed.
I crave distance from this.
I don’t have the desire to reignite email correspondence with people far away.
I don’t have the energy to go to the Simon Rec Center and do Stair Masters (my life is one long Stair Masters).
I observe that I don’t have the time to read my desired “one book per day.”
I do not drive much.
I clean Mev’s face at night with a hot washcloth.
I say “Thank you!” to the mailman who, if the front door is open (it typically is), drops the mail on the floor and cries, “Mail!”
I don’t believe I am holding Tylenol suppositories in my hand.
I grind to a halt, and I sigh heavily.
I look at how unevenly clipped my toenails are when I am sitting on the toilet.
I climb into bed with Mev and enjoy her stroking my hair with her left hand.
I climb on top of Mev, and we engage in kissering.
I try to envision Steve Kelly in jail trying to imagine Mev dying.
I reach to crank the stereo and play “Ticket to Ride” full blast; I don’t care what anyone thinks.
I blow my nose.
I don’t go Christmas shopping.
I cut off the last syllable of words or names to conserve breath: “Want some yog, Shar?”
I don’t feel hungry.
I imitate Nana Puleo’s shrug with an upturn of the mouth so as to indicate, “What can you do?”
I dream and dread and deny.
It was so great being partnered with you last week! Can't wait to see how your writing journey goes.
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