There are some days when constructing a simple string of words seems inconceivable.
Actually – not “days” per se. More like time of day. This mental monsoon of confusion generally doesn’t hit until after halfway through the daily doling out of randomness for you to ingest. I start out in love with an idea or two for hours. It’s not until that moment when I pause to stretch (and suddenly realize I know I have to do at least X more amount of work), that the wireless keyboard suddenly feels like a bowling ball, chained indelibly to my wrists by my own impinged nerves and self diagnosed carpal tunnel.
Can’t help but wonder what my brain scan would look like after a full workday…
I imagine I’m in good company – with anyone else who creates for pay.
People who create for a living – be it photography, film, paintings, whatever – have a whole different kind of wellspring from which they have to draw. When I worked at a more physical job, it was pretty much learning the basics and repeating them every day after that. Even the problem solving element became somewhat second nature after a while. It wasn’t easy, for sure, but it was the exact opposite of mining intrinsic motivation to display on a page.
And creation on command is kind of like willing orgasms to happen at random.
Chances are, if you’re effing someone who just isn’t doing it for you (or even if you are and get distracted pondering your list of chores) that sacred sacral spastic magic just won’t ensue. Likewise, creative work (if it’s any good) has to come from inspo that bathes your brainbox with endorphins as you make it.
So, when 3 P.M. hits and I’m getting dicked by diction, it slowly begins to signify nothing and I feel like little more than a prose prostitute. I keep adding shit-spiration to my disasterpiece and wondering why it’s not Nobel novel level at the end.
If I’m having a rare fleeting moment of good decision making, I’ll stop and switch the scene up. Almost always that helps. But when it fails to serve consistently, I wonder what I’m doing wrong. In a meta moment yesterday, I left home with my dogs, went to the woods, and read Psych Today from cover to cover (Henry David Thorough?).
On cue, I see a subsection saying how “Writers need to disconnect-“
At first, I’m like “Yeah. That’s me. My iphone’s off and I’m reading in the woods. I get a gold star…”
“-…from ANYTHING VERBAL.”
Duh. I talk about meditating as a means of disconnecting from distractions. But when I can’t just stop and sit in stillness, my other option is to usually read other people’s works or listen to documentaries. What Psych’s saying here is to do something that doesn’t involve words – play a guitar, draw, etc. Chill out and get away from what you do all day.
So, does that mean other-genre artists write to break from painting or playing piano? I’m sure as shit glad I don’t do music for a living. If I had to disconnect from my work in a way that didn’t involve at least other people’s music, I’d not get shit done ever.
I don’t think there’s a hard and fast rule here.
After all, I read a mag teaming with terminology and magically was moved to write this thing you’ve just read. It seems to me like experiential research is that only way to go. You just keep trying different things until focus falls into place. If one of them’s reading, then screw the magazine excerpts. Then again, I’m susceptible to reverse psychology. So as I was reading it, I well could’ve been thinking “I’ll show YOU, asshat!”.
Or maybe I do just love chaining myself to a keyboard after all.
#selfflagellatingfreelanceslave