Exercises
Last night I had every intention of coming home and settling down at my desk to an evening of writing. I hadn’t exactly committed out loud to doing it, because lately I have found that “sneaking up” on the writing is far more conducive to actually writing. Mostly because declaring, “I am now going to write” usually results in me sitting down at my desk and getting lost in my own little mental implosion. Not incredibly productive, and quite likely to shatter nerves and confidence in one fell swoop.
Focus has always been a challenge for me. I tend to multi-task (both as a nervous habit and a coping mechanism). But multi-tasking while writing is tricky. You start thinking that perhaps a slight distraction would be useful, get you out of a mental rut, help you not focus on a block (which you reason is only making it worse). But the sad truth is that more often than not the distance you were seeking quickly turns into a gap and suddenly it isn’t a harmless distraction anymore, it’s a full fledged shift of focus. Quite an addicting little trap there…
On the other side of the pendulum, there are the little writing dictatorships I have tried in vain to impose on myself over and over and over again. You WILL write for X number of hours, X number of days per week. You WILL produce X number of pages. You WILL not have any distractions while writing (i.e. unplug your network connection, pay someone to hide your wireless card, etc). But what can I say? I’m a rebel and there is no surer way to bring out my inner Revolutionary than fascism. So that doesn’t work either. And, of course, unrealistic goals (and believe me I am both King and Queen of the realm of unrealistic self expectations) only make you feel like a failure.
So, back to last night. The truth is, I wasn’t able to sneak up on an *entire* evening of writing. I was on the prowl for distractions before I even walked in the door, and news of the recently arrived Netflix (complete with the impossible to resist pull of Bette Davis and the unforgettable viewing experience that is All About Eve) was enough to push me over the edge of temptation. But, I am pleased to report, not until I had taken the time to satisfy myself by completing a little writing exercise while Mr. Knittiot made dinner.
I’ve been trying to figure out what is so overwhelming about the writing process. And I think I’ve realized that the reason it seems so big and so nebulous is because, well, it is. And further, that this is not a point to panic about. Instead, it is the place where you start to understand that you make it what you want it to be. Writing — my own particular writing — will only ever be defined by me. So, in a way, it feels like my job right now is to answer, for myself, the question — “What is writing?”. And the only answer I can come up with right now is Exercise.
I am at a point where I need exercise. Not only do I need something I can do every single day that makes it possible for me to say to myself (the writer), “Yes, I wrote today.” I also need practice. Plain and simple. And permission. Permission from the inner critic to be imperfect, and to be comfortable with being imperfect so that I don’t have to deal in panic attacks everytime I sit down to do my “real” work.
I also have realized that for sanity’s sack, a physical outlet is becoming increasingly necessary. I have known this for sometime, but am only just now finding the energy to follow through on it (Is it just me or does this sound awfully dramatic?). So, this weekend, I am going to start doing something about that too.
Unlike past declarations of this kind, I have spent some time evaluating whether or not these expectations of myself are reasonable or realistic, and I think that they are. Even so, I’m keeping a little flexibility in my back pocket to revise if necessary.