No matter when I write, I’m distracted. If I continue to write, I become more focused and less distracted, but never entirely. When I first sit down, however, no matter what I’m writing, or when I write, even if I’m not writing late in the evening when I’m tired—which I almost always am—at first I really don’t want to do it.
I can imagine someone who isn’t a writer, but who knows I am, saying to me, “So you enjoy writing” and I would have to think Hmm, not exactly. To say that we want something is complicated. I can, for instance, really, really want to see the play that’s being performed at a theater downtown, and just as much I can want to sit quietly on the couch and not drive through the rain to the theater.
We can want many things that all contradict one another. The essayist Montaigne even refers to this dichotomy of desire, because it is, after all, a basic fact of human psychology. I want to lose weight and eat half of this apple pie, at the same time.
So if I say I want to write, that’s absolutely true, probably more true than almost any other fact about me. I do want to write. Yet I can walk down the street “wanting to write” without being bothered by the actual writing process at that moment. I can walk along thinking that the hero in my book will be good and kind except with a harmful flaw of jealousy. It’s easy to think such a thing without having to write sentences that I will then look at and think “Well, that’s stupid”.
I noticed several times in the past week that fairly often when I stood up from my desk, within seconds my mind shifted to thinking about something I was writing, either the novel or a poem. As I walked down the hall to the restroom, I was thinking about how to handle a scene in the book, and when I got back to my desk, sat down, and looked at the computer screen, suddenly I was back to thinking about what the proper abbreviation for spondyloarthritis is in the medical journal I work for.
As a general rule, during free moments in the day, it’s fairly easy to ponder what I’m writing, and to wish I was home doing it, instead of having a job. It’s easy, that is, to think about writing. I’ve known a number of people who apparently think about it as well, based on their declarations that they write, or want to write, or at least think about being a writer.
Actually doing it, though, sitting down to the cold fact that there must be a first word (Summer), followed by a second word (geese), until a full sentence has been created (had gathered on the pond, ready to head south), that’s only one sentence, and that felt like work. I mean, why geese? Why a pond? And consider all the possibilities that have been lost because of that sentence. Before it was written, everything in all of time and space was available, but now that one sentence says that we’re near a pond at the end of summer. That’s a lot less than all of time and space. The very act of writing seems to limit the options.
Thus when I say that I want to write, what I mean is something like “I’m compelled to do this, I realize that, and I accept it.” Whether I like doing it is not relevant.
So every evening, often when I’m tired, I sit down at the computer, where I tell myself I’m going to write—after I check email, read a couple of news articles, look to see where the Gipsy Kings are from because I’m listening to their music, go get a bowl of nuts for a snack, check a different email account, make a note to email someone tomorrow, and look to see which town Van Morrison was born in because . . .
Eventually, late, I do finally slip into the writing, until at last I’m in that world, the one I’m creating, and there comes a point where I do rather enjoy it. Summer geese had gathered on the pond, ready to head south. As they flew over the interstate and past the mall, they moved back through time, landing finally beside a lake where the Aztec priest had said a city was to be built.