Note: I was sick as a dog this week, so this one is going to be pretty quick. It’s also more practical than my usual entry. Please note as well that there will be no update next week, due to the imminent holiday. Thanks.
There are days when you just can’t write a word.
Days where you sit down in a comfy spot, a nice beverage by your elbow, when the whole world is quiet and expectant and you look at that cursor blinking on your screen and your soul just screams and shoots off into another dimension because you realize you will not be writing one word today.
Worse, there are the days when you can write lots and lots of words, but the more you write the more you realize that it isn’t working, that nothing’s coming together and your sentences aren’t even coherent. As if your brain and the English language have conspired to thwart you.
There are days when you’re too tired to give it your all, and days when you’re sick and your brain isn’t functioning and days when every telemarketer in the world finds your number on their master list. It happens. Truth be told, it happens way too often.
It’s very easy on such days to just climb back under the covers for a “nap”, or run out to the store because you know you need more turmeric, or just give up and stare in the bathroom mirror until you can see your stubble growing. It’s understandable, it’s relatable to face these challenges and just… give up.
Or.
Or you can make a decision. You can say these words out loud: “Nothing I write today matters.” Then… keep writing. You can promise yourself to delete it all when you’re done (but don’t actually do that). You can announce to your cat, should you have a cat, that today you’re going on a side quest. A look of mischievous glee should come into your eye at this moment, for maximum effect. It’s optional, but I recommend rubbing your hands together vigorously while quietly cackling. Then–get to it.
Put aside your big project. Ignore the looming deadline, forget all your commitments. Today is already a wasted day! Start writing something new. Write something random. Or take a stab at that thing you’ve always wanted to write but didn’t know how. You’ve given yourself permission to fail. It doesn’t matter–nothing matters! Do you see how liberating this is?
Write poetry in an invented language. Invent a language. Write your main character’s shopping list (and no, they don’t need turmeric. What do they actually want?). Write word problems for children living in a mirror dimension where 2+2 can never equal 4. Write a character sketch for your favorite Star Wars character, in loving detail. In incredibly filthy, nasty, sexy detail. Write your deepest darkest secret in the plainest words possible, with no excuses and no regrets. Write your fondest desire and then write ten thousand words about why you deserve it.
Write that story you could never write because your mom might see it. Write that story your dad always wanted to read, but you didn’t get a chance to finish before he died. Write a letter to somebody you really miss, somebody who doesn’t want to hear it (don’t actually send it to them). Write what you’re afraid of. Write what makes you saddest.
It doesn’t matter.
You’re going to delete it all.
It doesn’t have to be good. It doesn’t have to make sense. This is the literary equivalent of finger painting.
When you’re done, when you need to stop (you probably won’t want to), then stop. Don’t look at what you’ve done. Don’t spend hours reading it over and over and wondering what you were thinking (the temptation to do this may be strong; resist). Then get ready to delete everything.
Instead, save it to a document with a completely nondescript name. Like “MyJournal.docx” or “taxworksheet1997.txt”. Tuck it into a deep, deep part of your hard drive where nobody is going to go snooping. Forget it’s there.
Tomorrow you get back to work, no ifs ands or buts. Tomorrow the real world’s strictures will be strictly enforced. Don’t tell anybody you played hooky. Keep your face serious and don’t make a lot of unnecessary eye contact, lest someone ask you how your day was. Pretend this never happened.
Then… every once in a while, a very infrequent once in a while, open that file back up and just sort of skim the contents. Wince. Snort in derision. Look around furtively to make sure nobody’s reading over your shoulder.
You may notice that out of every hundred pages of just raw primal screaming, there’s a good sentence here or there. An idea that, you know, doesn’t work at all, but which could be reworked into something maybe sort of helpful. You might find that writing all that nasty, nasty stuff has helped loosen you up a little, made you think more about what excites a reader. Who knows? Maybe you find nothing at all of use anywhere in “instructionsforcatsitter.version9.6.doc” except a reminder. A reminder that when the writing actually works, when you’re on your game, you’re actually pretty good.
There are days when you can’t write. Where it feels impossible to go on with what you’ve been doing.
Let these days be little gifts.
DAVID WELLINGTON 