I have made the following observation...whenever it is time for me to sit down and be creative I am possessed with an urge to do just about anything else. Telephone long-lost friends, exercise strenuously, bake cookies. One of the stronger and, I might add, uncharacteristic urges I have is to clean. Corners of my house that have been neglected for weeks, maybe (and more likely) months, are suddenly in critical need of attention. Why exactly is this? It never ceases to surprise me, and yet it is somehow ingrained in me.
My procrastination and creative process goes something like this. A few weeks before a written piece is due I begin thinking about it. This contemplation revolves mostly around the fact that the deadline is approaching and I had better get started. I pick a start date on the calender. The start date comes...and goes. I try in vain to think of a topic. I read essays and books and listen to NPR more religiously in order to stimulate my brain. These activities usually serve to immobilize me in the knowledge that other people are far more talented than I am and convince me that I will never think of something to write about and Stiles really will fire me this time.
After this passes I then spend some time cursing myself for all the times that I have written entire essays in my head while driving, and then neglected to put them on paper once I reached my destination. (The good news, I suppose, is that I don't attempt to record my thoughts when I am behind the wheel of a moving automobile.)
I then turn inward for inspiration, to fan the embers of creativity, to the tried and true "write what you know about". Well, in some instances that is successful but in others it's a complete dead end. For instance, in summer it is the worst. By the end of summer I am worn out. The unbelievable heat wave--which was more like a siege this year--has fried any creative thought that may have hatched in the last two months. Any new synaptic firings are paralyzed because the inadvertent thought that Christmas is around the corner crossed my mind. You will read this in October, but I am writing it in the first of September.
I am hot and tired from being hot and tired and trying to revive my yard from its near death experience. In addition, I am worn out by the likes of Germans who pick margarine out of the dairy case at City Market and snipe at me when I ever so helpfully suggest they might prefer butter. We all know darn well they would be caught dead before buying such a product in their own land. Hell, it's probably against the law to make margarine in Europe, much less buy it. I am convinced they want to put it back but must wait until I leave to preserve their dignity, but it doesn't make me feel any better.
I also go through a transition which is adjusting, once more, from a household of six to a household of two. I love my step-kids, but summer involves a whole other reality. Those of you with kids already know this. Life is more elemental with kids because basically most of your time revolves around feeding these curtain-climbers. You try in vain to keep the fridge stocked and when you come home from work, you make a beeline to the kitchen so that you can start cooking dinner...if there's any food left. Other than that, these kids are pretty self-reliant.
As an aside, the four of them try in vain to keep me "up on the latest", pertaining mostly to music, movies, and television programs. Last summer they addicted me to Daria, but after they left I could never figure out when it was broadcast. This summer it is the Powerpuff Girls. I felt as though I could actually contribute something to the conversation when I told them that the creator's original title for these mighty mites was the Whoopass Girls, but it couldn't be sold on prime time. I sure could use a little dose of whoopass myself right now.
Back to my point. The aftermath of the kids' departure is a curious mixture of quiet and emptiness. There are small reminders of their presence...like peach pits hidden in the couch cushions. I find it takes some time to find the equilibrium I exist in for the other part of the year, which doesn't aid my creative juices much.
At this time of year I must also steel my soul to war once more with mice for control of my house. I know we are supposed to live in harmony with all God's creatures, but these fuzzy rodents get more arrogant each fall, ensconcing themselves in wave, after wave, after wave. They scamper across the living room around brazenly in the evening, twitching their tails under my cats' very noses. I recently discovered that the cheeky little buggers have been storing their winter food supplies in my Hopi wedding vase. It's a great storage place and I am a forgiving person, but that is the final insult. I will not go quietly to hanta virus heaven and so the trapping begins. This task takes the starch out of me too.
No, by the time September arrives and my Zephyr article is due, I am brain dead. The pattern of my days is not really up to consuming 2,000 words. Writing about what I know, about my experiences... hmm. For example, do I write about the fact that I have lived with the same 4-slice toaster for most of my life, that only two of the slots have been functional for the last seven years and after a two year internal debate I finally decided that it would be okay to buy a new toaster? And that, having spent three months trying to decide between two brands I finally chose? And furthermore, that in this brand new toaster only two of the four slots work? The last straw is that for once in my life I recycled the packing box immediately...which means I have no convenient way to return it. This is all ironic, but not really captivating for anyone else.
Do I write about the fact that all I want to do is be outside right now? And that this desire is squelched by my first experience with allergies? I have always felt sorry for people who suffered from them and I now feel sorry for myself...both because my head might well explode and because this latest "affliction" is just one more sign that I am leaving youth behind. No, that's not fascinating at all, much less for three pages.
At some point along the way I become fatalistic, thinking that the creative urge will either make itself known or it won't. Se la vie and so on and so forth. Each time a deadline approaches Stiles somehow gets word to me that he is not going to remind me about it this time and the reasons vary. It might be because I'm an adult, or that it is not his job, or that he has better things to do - all of which I more or less agree with. His call usually gets my dander up because I never asked him to remind me about the deadline in the first place and this is probably his intent all along. I am momentarily relieved that he won't be nagging me. Then three or four days before the deadline...he calls to remind me. He's either a control freak or knows me too well. I shudder in either case.
I saw Ken Sleight recently and asked if he too had been reminded of the deadline by our erstwhile editor. He said he had.
I was curious, "What did you say?"
He replied, "I told him I was working on it." I was momentarily deflated. What did I expect? Of course Ken Sleight has his essay nearly complete. He's probably been working on it for weeks. This is what real writers do.
Ken leaned against the fence once more, smiled as only Ken can and added, "That means I'm thinking about it." Whew!
Two days before the deadline I begin typing furiously, under the presumption that if I go for quantity over quality, something usable will emerge. I stay up late, I get up early, I use my lunch hours. Eventually something does begin to emerge and every time I know it is too little too late. "Now, this might have actually been worth something," I chide myself, "if you had come up with it weeks ago."
I am down to the wire and by the time I deliver the disk I have chastised myself so thoroughly you would think I was a penitent. I know perfectly well how long it takes to write 2,000 words, to let them sit, to look them over, and to rework the whole essay before it is complete. (This is particularly essential in my case because I don't write in outline form. I usually start somewhere in the middle and then work on the beginning. At least I write the end in the proper order.)
Stiles begins reading and then he gives me grief for writing in the passive tense, of which I am guilty but simply do not want to hear about at this moment. Being completely rational, I exclaim that if he wants me to sound just like him he can write it himself. I can't figure out why he thinks I am over reacting. Then I have to leave, because it's too nerve wracking to be present while someone actually reads my writing.
"Call me if it's really bad and you can't use it. I'll write something else if I need too," I say, scurrying out the door, hoping this will somehow excuse my errant ways.
Once this mission is accomplished I collapse. Now I really am brain dead and pretty useless for a day or two. I swear that I will never, ever write an essay that way again. In fact, I will begin the next one tomorrow.