“The real writer is one /who really writes. Talent / is an invention like phlogiston / after the fact of fire. / Work is its own cure. You have to / like it better than being loved.” – Marge Piercy
Today I am blogging and editing old pieces I have returned to because the newer stuff, the projects I really want to complete, overwhelm, daunt, intimidate, scare (sorta). So, let’s revisit and blog and basically avoid the big, hard work. I didn’t sleep well, and yesterday I did so much yard work my body hurts all over. And, I have to admit I’m a little disappointed – and feeling sorry for myself, thus, don’t worry about not tackling the harder things – because all that yard work failed to earn me a terrific night of sleep, which was at least a part of the point!
And. The truth is as long as the fingers are typing or writing longhand, you and I and anyone else putting words on a page or screen is doing the work we need to do. And, another less comfy truth is that I (and I suspect many others) use blogging, editing, and reading (just finishing Abraham Verghese’s hefty but so good Cutting for Stone) as a ‘worthy’ distraction from the list of ‘please GAWD will I ever complete this’ projects…
Deep breaths. And, one other uncomfortable truth it that one or two of those other pressing need to be finished projects are so deeply personal, when I work on them I am as drained and exhausted as I was yesterday after doing three+ hours of sweaty yard work. And, the truth is the night before last I had a recurring nightmare of being cornered and fighting off a man (just one, this time) intent on sexually assaulting me. This recurring dream means I approach bedtime for several days afterward with a sense of please GAWD let me fall asleep and peacefully dream without having to defend myself.
The real writer is one who writes. I am so grateful I have the time to do any of the above, including yard work. I have resisted my Amish-adjacent definition of ‘unworthy distractions’ as in the TV doesn’t go on until after 4p.m. if then, and I don’t, ever, buy pulpy fiction or magazines (The New Yorker and The Week are not pulpy). No reality TV other than house renovations as I think, I believe, I have one more project of that nature in me…
Jesus H. Christ. Maybe I need to lighten up. Maybe, just maybe, if I watched or read mindless comedy or reality TV, I could get to work on the hard stuff because it’d unburden me, lighten me up? Make me less Amish? It’s a thought.
Until then, then, I write.