My fiancé, an Army sergeant and former police officer, wants
one of those $2,000 massage chairs from Brookstone. I’ve yet to walk past the
storefront at the mall without losing him to one of the chunky, buzzing
machines. He says if he had something like it at home, he’d get more done, as
if his body—and his mind, just as tense from work and thoughts of it—were
massaged into compliance. “Sure, I’ll load the dishwasher, just give me a few
minutes in The Chair.”
No matter our job, we all know the feeling of physical and
mental strain—the feeling of oversaturation, or total depletion, which, for me,
turns what could be a couple of hours of writing and/or revision into a couple
of hours of Netflix and ice cream. “You’re just not in the right state of mind
right now to be creating—try tomorrow.” For those of you with children, second
jobs, and/or multiple extracurricular positions, duties, hobbies, etc., you may
scoff at the essays and articles that attempt to answer the question “How do
you write and work?” Despite what you may think, if you want to be a writer,
you have the time to find (key word: “find,” because it may not be an easy
task).
All I can really offer is some of what I’ve done in the past
year as a writer and Visiting Instructor who committed to teaching twelve
courses (an overload both semesters, plus two courses over the summer), yet did
more writing than I ever had previously. Perhaps it’s the poet in me, but I’ve tried
to choreograph a few analogies (perhaps a writer’s habit, or the crutch of an
introverted poet) to explain how I balanced work and writing. Friends and peers
seem to like the following most:
The tightrope walker crosses the gap between two tall buildings,
slowly but surely. He’s holding a long pole for balance, which begins to tilt
with his body as both are nudged by gusts of wind. He regains his balance
(aligns his center of gravity) by tilting the pole, and thus his weight, into
the wind. Without doing so, he knows he’ll fall.
As I balanced my way through a very full teaching schedule,
writing became my counterweight to the winds of paper grading, email-answering,
citizenship applications and processing, family matters, and job hunts (I was,
earlier this summer, ending my Visiting Instructorship), and general mental
gust of stress and exhaustion, I’d never felt more compelled to spend my free
time clacking away on my laptop. Many days, I didn’t feel like it. Many days, I
questioned my writing ‘ability.’ Many days, I imagine writers abandon their
laptops/notebooks in claim of experiencing ‘writer’s block.’ But, let me tell
you, there’s no such thing as writer’s block.
Whatever you’re trying to work on, and struggling to the
point at which you’re only winding yourself up, minimize the tab/turn the page
and work on something else. Revisit that poem you wrote last year. Free write
what could be the heart of a new personal essay. Make a list of craft essay
ideas (aka. permit yourself the writing time to lists or outlines, and not
clean paragraphs of prose or profound poetic lines). Eventually, in doing so,
you’ll ‘retrain’ your mind as I have done this past year, to let myself create
and work on multiple things at once. Isn’t that, in a sense, the artist at his
freest? The child squirting ketchup on his toast? Hey, let him try it. If
that’s what he wants, look at him go—no resistance, no self-imprisoning to how
he may think he ‘should be eating…’
Even though university faculty often receive forgiving
schedules, we know our free days are often spent working to some degree, or at
least living with work on the mind. While some formidable writers have suggested
simpler methods of encouraging themselves away from these mental work ties and into
a creative/uninhibited state, like getting drunk or high, I’ve heard few
success stories. I have, though, heard many writer friends succeed by making “appointments”
for themselves to write (ex. “At 11:00 a.m. on Thursday, I have an appointment
with Microsoft Word. I’m going to turn off my cell phone, deactivate the wifi,
give the dog a new chew toy, and assign the children to the basement with a VHS
tape of The Lion King and the
remainders of last year’s mega bag of Halloween candy”). This method, at least,
forces you to examine your schedule and note one—but ideally a few—promising
block of free time you may have in the week. Be sure to treat it like an
appointment—you must ‘go,’ and if you don’t, a fee will incur (calling yourself
up to say, “Hey, I’m so sorry, I’ve made time tomorrow—see you then,” is a
wonderful response to dipping out on a schedule write-time. If you’re not
committed enough to sticking with an idea like this, then you don’t get to
complain about not having the time or energy to write. Stop making excuses for
yourself. Your passion, talent, and artistic integrity don’t deserve to be
overshadowed by your laziness or mediocre/poor treatment of your time.
Buck up, writer. Buck up, teacher, student, human. You are
capable of more. Sit with yourself, think deeply about what’s holding you back.
Answer: It’s you. It’s always been you. Find a greater
balance. Take another step forward.
Jamie
is the author of hiku [pull] (Porkbelly Press, 2016). Winner of an AWP
Intro Journals Project award for poetry and four-time Pushcart Prize nominee,
his work has been published with Colorado Review, Black Warrior
Review, Passages North, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, and DIAGRAM,
among other journals. Jamie received his MFA in Creative Writing from Florida
Atlantic University, where he was a Lawrence A. Sanders poet fellow and
currently teaches as an Instructor. Born in England, and former resident of New
Zealand, Jamie is a first-generation Asian-American (officially--he passed his naturalization
test and interview this summer!) currently living in West Palm Beach with his
partner, John, and their greyhound, Jack. Twitter: @jamesahwhite
