The Frustrating Reality of Writing When You’re Not a Hermit
I wish I was one of those people who can just sit and write on a schedule. Or that I could even attempt to be. But there’s this pesky thing called life.
Thanks to everyone - and I mean everyone - especially my helpless husband and constantly-in-crisis children, for taking up the slack of living and leaving me alone long enough to write this stuff down.
It seems that one of the most common bits of advice from writers for writers is to make writing a habit. Okay, I certainly get that. But the advice goes on to describe the habit as something that’s done early in the day, worked right in there with making the coffee and brushing your teeth. Come to think of it, that’s the same advice that almost everyone gives for any habit they encourage you to build: first thing in the morning, stacked in with all the other start-of-day habits.
Supposedly, if you just start typing away - or writing away for all the pen and paper purists - the creative juices will start to flow and lead eventually to coherent, if not cohesive, thought. While I agree that this is certainly possible, I also know that falling down a rabbit hole is far more probable, at least in my case.
Left to my on devices, I might well begin a stream of consciousness before breakfast and still be streaming until I’m nearly unconscious after dinner.
And wouldn’t that be lovely!
Another piece of advice is to be disciplined and more than a tad selfish. Once you have claimed a space of time as your writing time, you must make it sacred. It must be defended. It is yours, all yours, and all others need to stay out of it. Settle in with your coffee or tea, maybe a bit of music, white noise, silence, or whatever works for you, and lock the door. Of course, this makes perfect sense and no one who endeavors to spill the mangle of their mind out into a hopeful literary masterpiece would argue with that scenario.
Sweet dreams are made of these.
Thank you for going away
Have you ever noticed how many introductions or thank you pages of books, novels, or other creative works mention families, friends, or colleagues? How many times do words like “support”, “understanding”, “patience”, “time”, or other similar sentiments come up?
My version of such a page would be short and sweet:
“Thanks to everyone - and I mean everyone - especially my helpless husband and constantly-in-crisis children, for taking up the slack of living and leaving me alone long enough to write this stuff down. Thanks for taking care of yourself, for figuring it out for yourself, for believing - and respecting - me the first time I said I wanted to be left alone, and that your world would not end during that time.”
In a perfect world, this is exactly what would happen. In my very imperfect world, however, this has no resemblance to reality. I know I’m not alone. There is always a bell to answer, as the old song says. Something to cook, or clean, or find, or fold. Something to buy, or pay, or pick up, deliver, or approve. Always a door to open to ask just one more question, or one more earth-shattering (to them) update that I must have that very instant.
And thank you for staying
Please understand that this is not a complaint. It is merely a statement of fact. It does no good for the positive toxicity crowd to lecture about priorities, boundaries, or testimonials of their own successes. Nor am I making any of this an excuse for “not trying hard enough” to claim the time and space to fulfill that need to write.
It is also my way of saying to all the others out there who see themselves in these comments, I know it can be frustrating. I know that the unrequited need for the time and space to exorcise that mental tangle and exercise the literary muscle to make sense of it all can be miserable. I know the inadequacy of falling short, even if it’s only by your own yardstick.
I also know, however, that comparison is the thief of joy. One person’s foolproof system fails against another person’s fools. Sometimes we must be content with working around the obstacles in the life we have in order to get to the life we hope to have.
So if you see yourself in the same frustrating obstacle course, let’s make a pact. I won’t give up or give in if you won’t. I will carry on dumping these thoughts out in whatever time and space I can beg, borrow, steal, or set in stone.
Inspiration doesn’t keep a schedule, after all. Why should I?
Oct 5, 2024
Oh. I discovered that I only get any writing done if I bring a simple notebook and a pen with me to the coffee shop. Tiny victories!
Thank you. This is great. I do see myself in this piece. I recently made a promise to myself that I would take time every weekend to sit down and write. I’m on the phone and on my computer all day every day during the week and in the evenings i’m pretty involved in service work. Usually, right after work a short nap sounds way more appealing than sitting down and writing.
Anyway, on the weekends, I would drag my laptop to the coffee shop and spend hours… getting distracted! Usually by Substack notes of all things. This lead me to some really great writing, by others. (I see you’ve written of peace about Substack notes. I plan on reading that soon, I promise!)
If you’ve read “The War of Art” by Steven Pressfield, you know what’s going on here. It’s called “resistance”.
I had heard that “comparison is the thief of joy” quote for the first time just last week, so that’s an interesting coincidence.
Thank you for sticking with it and not giving up.