May the Hello, Reader. humble scribe here.
What follows: a real-time attempt to communicate experience. It's an experience that may be relevant to some of you, if you write. Or, in fact, engage in any effort that's similarly shaped.
Let's at the outset define the term: 'write'.
The useful definition—the definition that applies to all of your humble scribe's discussion of 'writing', however glancing—is inclusive and jerky.
The inclusive part is: if you write, you write. Ha! Not helpful! Meaning: if you sit down, in the absence of external distractions except those that (inevitably) your brain smuggled in; if you try for periods of sustained diligent focus to create works that are meant to be whole and complete unto themselves; optimally if these sessions string together to create large-scale wholes that a Reader must herself attend to over many sessions of reading [this part, the large-scale part, is not required; just an accentuation of the other qualities]; if you, in these period of sustained focus, think in some kind of way (your own way, no doubt) about the form and format of the language you are using, about the vehicle of your language as a thing unto itself, not simply as an instrumental substrate for your semantic content...
then: you write.
That was a lot of words to describe what is, like pornography, an elusive but really not-that-complex thing. If you think that you do it you probably do it.
Caveat (remember: the definition is both inclusive and jerky) — you have to sit; focus; do the writing. With the words, and the scribbling/typing/erasing/writing other words/etc.
Thinking about writing and story: not writing. Even a lot of that: not writing. Daydreaming about it constantly, weaving threads in your mind: not writing. Your humble scribe does these things, of course; constantly! And most people experience it, and (he hazards to guess) every person who winds up doing actual writing does it. But just having ideas for a story, with
gosh that should happen and
yes! that is neat and
but no time at the desk, no time: words, shuttered, focus.
Not writing.
That is called being a 'Creative Producer'. Or something. And—in all seriousness—it is great. It's an important thing, for the world. If that is you—there are, I know, a few of you out there—thank you.
And obviously, many people have both things inside them. This is not about some strange top-down designation of who you 'are'; we are all many things. It's about what you are doing and do, and how praxis constitutes lived identity: moment-to-moment, day-to-day.
Alright, let's start again.
Perhaps you write; statistically speaking, based on in-person knowledge of Readers herein, there is a (exact figure) 78% chance that you do.
And if you are like me, like your humble scribe here: even though you indeed write (or perhaps: because you do), you have to do [other things]. You do these things to remain viable in this world as a functioning adult; you engage or allow yourself to be engaged in various other activities for which remuneration is reliably forthcoming.
This describes your humble scribe's position, certainly; and slimbuttons will no doubt be jabbering at you about those experiences in the coming weeks. Because the first two moons of the new year are a time when your humble scribe is particularly wrapped up in these [other things]; this 'work'. And let's be clear, here: your scribe's not a punk; he does not imagine that his situation is a novel, remarkable, or regrettable. But it is disruptive, of course, to the praxis of writing. He's using that work on purpose, here: praxis. It's a fussy word; why not just say 'practice'? Because in its difference and distinction by usage it, praxis, carries a certain set of connotations that 'practice' does not, while also being unburdened by other, less useful for right now, meanings. Praxis is what we mean, presently speaking.
What this post is about is: your humble scribe's personal praxis of writing in balance with challenges, [other things]: life. For much of the year since the calendar turned, this is the balancing act he's been in; it's one he'll be in 'till the worst of this year's cold is over and through (in the Northern Hemisphere, at least; on this shard, at least). We're all in it, of course, constantly; but this is a period of during which—for your humble scribe—these issues are pressing.
[[Bouncing Off It and Getting Back In]]
You lose it, if too much of your day—of your time, thought, and effort—is spent outside the work. This, for your humble scribe, is just a reality; he has learned not to beat himself up about it too badly (even though it is, probably, a function of his own weakness). But it's a reality, for him; the writer's-retreat state of being deep inside the work, of having it running all times in your mind, of laying down bricks in a structure you can see—a structure you can see even where it's not yet built...you lose it, if you have to do lots of [other things]. You just do!
And part of the reality your scribe's come to recognize is the unavoidable, frustrating, but also passing bumpiness of the reëntry period. To be specific: during a recent trip, a trip that was part of these other activities, he was able to take a few hours each morning with Emmy, Rich, Stang, Erra, etc. — the crew. The limitations and importance of that, of these few snatched hours, will be discussed at the bottom of this post. What we're talking about here is now, these days when he's come back home between the various trips for these other activities that constitute so much of his year's first two months. And in this brief furlough, his time's much more his own. But it is frustrating, at least at first, because: having been 'taken out of it' by the trip he's returned from; having, despite his best efforts, lost certain threads of attention and continuity and flow; the first couple of days back are...Reader, they're not good. The header for this section is 'bouncing off it' because that is exactly what it feels like; it's not that words won't come, or even that thoughts and ideas have been lost. It's that thoughts, ideas, words, structures, everything skitters in every direction, a hard but thin stream of what is inside my head hitting some newly-constructed wall, some obstacle that has erected itself beween the inside of my head and the rest of the world, between my head and the work and its essential nature, and so all the thoughts, ideas, words, structures, everything hit that and scatter and spray and diffuse. They bounce off it, away; they attenuate, echo, and fade and then die.
This is not, in itself, a big problem per se. At the best of times, ~94% of the thoughts, ideas, words, etc. that your scribe thinks of are complete total rubbish; and these periods of returning full-time to the work are hardly the best of times, so it's possible that it is even a blessing that his efforts are, for a time, obliterated. But what is bad is that the praxis must be rebuilt; the capacity to usefully sit—with breaks, but consistently—for hours a day with the work and do work: lay track, produce outcomes, 'get things done'. That gets broken, replaced by this splashy diffuse mess. And the only solution that your humble scribe has come up with for this is...no solution. There is no thing you can do, beyond: doing the thing.
Sit.
Fail.
Trash.
Sit.
Fail.
Fail.
BOUNCE. Nothing. Splat.
Sit.
Fail.
Trash.
Bounce.
Sit.
Fail.
Fail.
Fail.
Just...until one of those 'Fails' becomes, if not not a 'Fail', at least a 'Fail' that has some tiny something inside it: some speck of something that breaks through the wall of inattention and distance that's arisen between you and the work, hooks into the gnarled mess of threads (story, character, plot, theme) all contained in the work, and begins to tug them out—or, more accurately, tug you in.
A famous scribe on your shard, whose impressions in clay are still much read and loved, even now long long after his return to dark water, expressed an excellent thought which—Reader, brace yourself—the Internet has basically mangled. In his own quest for stories about...dogs? and men in cold places? let's move on In his own quest for hist stories, Jack London found that, herewith (orange highlight is our focus):
What follows: a real-time attempt to communicate experience. It's an experience that may be relevant to some of you, if you write. Or, in fact, engage in any effort that's similarly shaped.
Let's at the outset define the term: 'write'.
The useful definition—the definition that applies to all of your humble scribe's discussion of 'writing', however glancing—is inclusive and jerky.
The inclusive part is: if you write, you write. Ha! Not helpful! Meaning: if you sit down, in the absence of external distractions except those that (inevitably) your brain smuggled in; if you try for periods of sustained diligent focus to create works that are meant to be whole and complete unto themselves; optimally if these sessions string together to create large-scale wholes that a Reader must herself attend to over many sessions of reading [this part, the large-scale part, is not required; just an accentuation of the other qualities]; if you, in these period of sustained focus, think in some kind of way (your own way, no doubt) about the form and format of the language you are using, about the vehicle of your language as a thing unto itself, not simply as an instrumental substrate for your semantic content...
then: you write.
That was a lot of words to describe what is, like pornography, an elusive but really not-that-complex thing. If you think that you do it you probably do it.
Caveat (remember: the definition is both inclusive and jerky) — you have to sit; focus; do the writing. With the words, and the scribbling/typing/erasing/writing other words/etc.
Thinking about writing and story: not writing. Even a lot of that: not writing. Daydreaming about it constantly, weaving threads in your mind: not writing. Your humble scribe does these things, of course; constantly! And most people experience it, and (he hazards to guess) every person who winds up doing actual writing does it. But just having ideas for a story, with
gosh that should happen and
yes! that is neat and
but no time at the desk, no time: words, shuttered, focus.
Not writing.
That is called being a 'Creative Producer'. Or something. And—in all seriousness—it is great. It's an important thing, for the world. If that is you—there are, I know, a few of you out there—thank you.
And obviously, many people have both things inside them. This is not about some strange top-down designation of who you 'are'; we are all many things. It's about what you are doing and do, and how praxis constitutes lived identity: moment-to-moment, day-to-day.
Alright, let's start again.
Perhaps you write; statistically speaking, based on in-person knowledge of Readers herein, there is a (exact figure) 78% chance that you do.
And if you are like me, like your humble scribe here: even though you indeed write (or perhaps: because you do), you have to do [other things]. You do these things to remain viable in this world as a functioning adult; you engage or allow yourself to be engaged in various other activities for which remuneration is reliably forthcoming.
This describes your humble scribe's position, certainly; and slimbuttons will no doubt be jabbering at you about those experiences in the coming weeks. Because the first two moons of the new year are a time when your humble scribe is particularly wrapped up in these [other things]; this 'work'. And let's be clear, here: your scribe's not a punk; he does not imagine that his situation is a novel, remarkable, or regrettable. But it is disruptive, of course, to the praxis of writing. He's using that work on purpose, here: praxis. It's a fussy word; why not just say 'practice'? Because in its difference and distinction by usage it, praxis, carries a certain set of connotations that 'practice' does not, while also being unburdened by other, less useful for right now, meanings. Praxis is what we mean, presently speaking.
What this post is about is: your humble scribe's personal praxis of writing in balance with challenges, [other things]: life. For much of the year since the calendar turned, this is the balancing act he's been in; it's one he'll be in 'till the worst of this year's cold is over and through (in the Northern Hemisphere, at least; on this shard, at least). We're all in it, of course, constantly; but this is a period of during which—for your humble scribe—these issues are pressing.
[[Bouncing Off It and Getting Back In]]
You lose it, if too much of your day—of your time, thought, and effort—is spent outside the work. This, for your humble scribe, is just a reality; he has learned not to beat himself up about it too badly (even though it is, probably, a function of his own weakness). But it's a reality, for him; the writer's-retreat state of being deep inside the work, of having it running all times in your mind, of laying down bricks in a structure you can see—a structure you can see even where it's not yet built...you lose it, if you have to do lots of [other things]. You just do!
And part of the reality your scribe's come to recognize is the unavoidable, frustrating, but also passing bumpiness of the reëntry period. To be specific: during a recent trip, a trip that was part of these other activities, he was able to take a few hours each morning with Emmy, Rich, Stang, Erra, etc. — the crew. The limitations and importance of that, of these few snatched hours, will be discussed at the bottom of this post. What we're talking about here is now, these days when he's come back home between the various trips for these other activities that constitute so much of his year's first two months. And in this brief furlough, his time's much more his own. But it is frustrating, at least at first, because: having been 'taken out of it' by the trip he's returned from; having, despite his best efforts, lost certain threads of attention and continuity and flow; the first couple of days back are...Reader, they're not good. The header for this section is 'bouncing off it' because that is exactly what it feels like; it's not that words won't come, or even that thoughts and ideas have been lost. It's that thoughts, ideas, words, structures, everything skitters in every direction, a hard but thin stream of what is inside my head hitting some newly-constructed wall, some obstacle that has erected itself beween the inside of my head and the rest of the world, between my head and the work and its essential nature, and so all the thoughts, ideas, words, structures, everything hit that and scatter and spray and diffuse. They bounce off it, away; they attenuate, echo, and fade and then die.
This is not, in itself, a big problem per se. At the best of times, ~94% of the thoughts, ideas, words, etc. that your scribe thinks of are complete total rubbish; and these periods of returning full-time to the work are hardly the best of times, so it's possible that it is even a blessing that his efforts are, for a time, obliterated. But what is bad is that the praxis must be rebuilt; the capacity to usefully sit—with breaks, but consistently—for hours a day with the work and do work: lay track, produce outcomes, 'get things done'. That gets broken, replaced by this splashy diffuse mess. And the only solution that your humble scribe has come up with for this is...no solution. There is no thing you can do, beyond: doing the thing.
Sit.
Fail.
Trash.
Sit.
Fail.
Fail.
BOUNCE. Nothing. Splat.
Sit.
Fail.
Trash.
Bounce.
Sit.
Fail.
Fail.
Fail.
Just...until one of those 'Fails' becomes, if not not a 'Fail', at least a 'Fail' that has some tiny something inside it: some speck of something that breaks through the wall of inattention and distance that's arisen between you and the work, hooks into the gnarled mess of threads (story, character, plot, theme) all contained in the work, and begins to tug them out—or, more accurately, tug you in.
A famous scribe on your shard, whose impressions in clay are still much read and loved, even now long long after his return to dark water, expressed an excellent thought which—Reader, brace yourself—the Internet has basically mangled. In his own quest for stories about...dogs? and men in cold places? let's move on In his own quest for hist stories, Jack London found that, herewith (orange highlight is our focus):
 |
| This is by Jack London, from a magazine called The Editor. The essay is entitled "Getting Into Print", and it was published in the March, 1903 edition. Image credit is gratefully given to The Harry Ransom Center at UT Austin. |
[[It is Hopeless; You Must]]
On this recent trip, the one from which your humble scribe's just returned, the one for [other things] — as noted, your
pointless, but better than nothing things slimbuttons does; the takeaways; how you handle them;
it is hopeless, it is useful
this is about the work you were doing in Aransas Pass, but could also apply to your work while you're TAing.
The idea is: it is hopeless, because grabbing 2-4 hours a day just isn't enough to make progress. Even perfect hours, that's not enough to really drive progress. And if they're compromised hours; well -- no chance.
BUT, it's also worth noting, or has to be noted, that it is so much better than not doing that; you keep connected and so much more tapped into the work. You don't lose it, and you 'don't backslide (as much).
it is hopeless, it is useful.