Disciplined writers commit to writing something every day, but that’s been a struggle. This is my latest attempt.
March 15-16, 2021
Beware the Ides of March.
I admit to being a chronic master procrastinator when it comes to writing, which should not be confused with a chronic masturbator. I am not the disciplined writer who gets up at the butt crack of dawn every day and writes furiously for two, three or more hours.
I’m not a new writer; I’ve been putting pen to paper for more than 50 years. I don’t carry a Moleskine journal, furtively writing everywhere because a newly found voice and sense of outrage is brimming with ideas. My outrage started with an alcoholic stepfather and increased exponentially with the Vietnam War. I’m old and tired and cranky.
I often think of things when I’m driving or out for a walk, neither of which is conducive to putting pen to paper. (Also, my handwriting is so bad I have to ask Peg if she can figure out what I’ve scribbled: “You wrote ‘small Bailey’s’, not small barley.”) I roll things around in my brain, editing and revising until I finally have something to record for posterity.
That, and I’m a poor judge of my own writing. I’m never sure anyone will want to read what I have to say.
I’ve tried to analyze my reluctance with little success, but I can attribute a lot of it to two things: I hate trying to write when the muse isn’t there, because it just makes me frustrated and angry, and I hate being interrupted when I’m in the groove.
Until I alter my habits to something more productive, my days look like this:
I get up after a fitful night’s sleep made difficult by annoying and sometimes terrifying dreams (I was a psychopath being taken to a mental hospital in the last dream I remember). I shower, take my meds from the seven-day pill case I keep in my nightstand, and make coffee. If Baxter is still sleeping – sometimes he won’t get up until 10am or so – I will sit at my desk and try to write or waste time, knowing he’ll be up soon.
When His Lordship has awakened from his slumber, I will take him downstairs and out to pee, then we will negotiate breakfast. Sometimes he is hungry; other times he tries to run back upstairs because he’s just not interested. Occasionally I can entice him with sliced turkey but if he has a case of the fuckits, it’s an exercise in futility. If he does eat, I have to catch him to give him his insulin before he bolts. If I’ve thought fast enough, I put the gate up in front of the stairs.
That being done, I will sit in bed, drink coffee, and play Kindle games or read while Baxter buries, then eats cookies on the bed. I started doing this because if I go directly to my office to work, he yells from the bedroom until I return. When he finally settles down for his all-important early morning or mid-morning nap, I will go to my office and engage in the usual timewasters.
I approach Facebook as the 21st century morning newspaper. My FB friends and acquaintances post news links, often from sources outside the United States. I’ve contacts in the UK, Australia, and New Zealand, as well as one guy in Norway, but he doesn’t appear very often. Reading how the rest of the world sees us is sobering and sometimes infuriating, especially when some asshole here says we shouldn’t have universal health coverage because, “it’s socialism and I don’t want to pay for some illegal’s health care.” Presumably, his own financial ruin, the result of unpaid catastrophic medical expenses, is just dandy.
Then I’ll read the notifications for previous posts which, more often than not, draws me back to running arguments with die-hard contrarians. Common topics include:
- how Joe Biden is wrecking the country, and how that other guy was so great,
- people who wear masks are sheep, and coronavirus is a hoax,
- how the Democrats are coming for your guns,
- why the national debt is now a problem when it wasn’t during the past four years,
- poor people are poor because they don’t try hard enough, or they are lazy.
I’m trying to limit myself to thirty minutes as I can spend hours foaming at the mouth.
Next, I’ll check my email and then the ADD kicks in. I get distracted, remembering something I wanted to look days ago, or something I’d promised to send someone. Last Saturday my lack of progress prompted me to start reorganizing my office. I tossed some shit but just shuffled most of it around.
I’ll give some thought to what I’m going to make for dinner. If I’m really busy I’ll default to takeout. Famous Dave’s on Tuesdays when they have the Feast for Two deal. Popeye’s, El Famous Burrito or Chinese from the Golden Wok on other days.
I have my weekly routines. Tuesday is getting recycling and garbage ready for pickup on Wednesday. Thursday is towel day – washing all the dirty towels. Saturday is for changing and washing the sheets. Somewhere in there I’ll empty the hamper and do my laundry. Peg is particularly finicky about her laundry; for some reason she doesn’t like delicates dried on “incinerate.”
I’ve tried to do the shopping strategically. I’ll do a Costco run once a month, as soon as they open, because otherwise it’s insane. Same with Aldi. I’ll go to Mariano’s nearer to dinnertime when most people are home. Peg and I made up printable shopping lists for Aldi and Costco.
Housework is done as needed. I’ll empty the dishwasher if it’s been run. I vacuum the rug next to our kitchen island as it picks up crap from walking or eating. Getting the Dyson vac we keep in the family room was the best purchase we’d made in a long time. Light, quick and efficient.
After dinner Peg and I collapse on the couch and binge-watch something on Netflix or Amazon Prime until the master realizes it’s around 9pm and starts barking until we go upstairs to the bed.
This all brings me to “The Finite and the Tangible,” a blog post I started years ago and still haven’t finished. Medical school had no definable end in sight. We were expected to acquire useful information from textbooks numbering hundreds, if not thousands, of pages. (Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine was about 1,500 pages in 1975. It’s now a whopping 4048 pages in two volumes weighing 13.2 pounds!) I felt like there was a mountain of books, papers and trash piled into the middle of a school gymnasium and I was the janitor with a whisk broom and dustpan.
Writing provokes the same anxiety and trepidation.
Long ago I learned to derive a sense of accomplishment from simple things like housework, laundry, and cooking. They are finite tasks with tangible results. I don’t have to wait months or years to see the final product. I especially like cooking because cutting things into little pieces is very therapeutic (and, unlike murdering one’s tormentors, legal). I’m a reasonably good cook but I am not a chef by any stretch of the imagination, even though Peg chastises me for doing “cheffy-chef” things like trying to flip a large pancake using just the pan. Hey, practice makes perfect and at least I did it over the sink instead of the bare floor.
A good friend of mine is an artist who, in retirement, has committed to finishing one drawing every day. I spent the 30-40 minutes writing this when I started, another hour revising the following day, and about 20 minutes just before posting. I’m trying to force myself to write something every day, but it’s still a struggle.
Maybe I’ll ignore the call of the long list of timewasters and go back to “The Finite and the Tangible.” But let me check my Facebook page for just a minute…