I excel at “not writing.” I’m very, very good at it. It comes naturally.
What I struggle with is writing. I think back on the many, many years I invested in writing personnel memos. The memos would start something like this, “Remember when you were looking at porn on the Internet on the company computer? Well, don’t do that anymore.” Or, “remember when you were freelancing using the company computer on company time and you accidentally sent your invoice to the typesetter? Well, don’t do that anymore.” During that time, my father was alive, and he would ask me, “What are you writing these days?” “Memos, Dad, some really entertaining memos.”
When I struggle to get started writing, it always perplexes me. When I’m not supposed to be writing, I’m bombarded with inspiration. When I finally experience the sweet relief of sitting with my laptop, and it’s quiet all around me, the dog isn’t barking at the wasps buzzing in the window, and the twins aren’t screaming Ukrainian curses at each other (“you’re the worst brother I ever had …”), then I freeze up. It feels like I have already said it. I have, in my head. I have already worked it out. The insight from the morning shower is not a news flash anymore.
Or, it feels like certainly someone else has already said it. In the age of the Internet, certainly, someone already has.
But no one has said it like me, and no one has said it now.
So I say to myself gently, “Dear Mindful Writer, you don’t have to write today. You can take it easy. All you have to do is outline. Just jot down a few thoughts.” So I’ll sit down and outline five chapters. And that will get really boring. Something will catch my attention — the white rabbit diving into the hole — and I’ll chase it. And the next thing you know, I’m writing.
