When Left to Our Own Devices
Or, Writers, the Scourge of the Creative World
Writers are odd creatures.
Living proof that too much introversion leads to madness.
We are simultaneously testaments to human will and creativity, coupled with lethargy and self-loathing. We are masters of distraction. When writing a story, I will spend hours picking at ingrown hairs on my legs, plucking my eyebrows, and making pointless trips to the kitchen. I’ll hobble over, open the fridge, stare into it blankly, close it, glance around aimlessly, open the pantry cupboards, stare blankly again, sigh, close them, glance around a second time, and return to my laptop, defeated.
About four minutes and approximately twenty words later, I realize how badly I have to pee.
Back at my laptop and highly motivated, I revisit my original outline, well aware that it has become unoriginal and archaic in the time it took me to visit the kitchen and bathroom. The protagonist’s character is flat. Plot stagnant. Theme forced and hollow.
I sink into a deep existential debate. An ever-present internal monologue debases my talent as a writer, questions the value of storytelling altogether, and concludes that I have chosen to waste my life on a meaningless career. All aspiration melts away as I slouch into a listless wad of self deprecation.
I revisit the kitchen. Hope lost, I dive into a box of Double Stuf Oreos, and sink deeper and deeper into revulsion. Feeling utterly useless and unaccomplished, I decide to take a walk. Fresh air and exercise are proven to revitalize the creative mind, spark inspiration, and generally diminish the desire to end one’s life. I read it in an Atlantic Monthly. Hot as Hades’ underworld outside, but I don’t mind. Convince myself this is exactly what I need. Maybe if I stop obsessing over the authenticity of my characters and storyline, the solutions will simply present themselves. So, I push the story as far from my conscious mind as possible. As a four pound mess of neurotic and over analytical synapses, however, my brain refuses to rest, and insists on filling the newly vacated cortex with obsessive thoughts about my friends and their far superior lives. My two closest college companions both live in San Francisco, and are wildly more successful than I will ever be. They both work fulfilling, high-paying jobs, have been in committed relationships for years, while somehow maintaining gorgeous physiques and finding time to vacation in Hawaii.
The Oreos cause a cramp in my gut, and I stop to sit on a bench. By now, I’ve sweat through my shirt completely, and been reminded that I forgot deodorant this morning. In reality, deodorant was unnecessary because I had no reason to leave the house today at all, have no colleagues, and am thoroughly single. Defeated and completely alone, I return home; collapse once again in front of my computer, and add another few words to the story, ignoring the previous decision to revise the entire thing.
About four minutes and approximately twenty words later, I perceive that I’m on the verge of fatal dehydration, and trek to the kitchen.
I routinely open the fridge, then the pantry. Stare blankly. Find nothing. I decide it may be time to try the recipe for chicken cordon bleu that I’ve had dog-eared for months. Midway through assembling various spices I was unaware were in my house, I hear my phone ring in the other room, and rush out to answer it.
One of my successful friend in San Francisco. Delightful.
“Hi! Oh yea, I’m great! Just getting some really solid work done on my new short story. I’m definitely in the zone today, and have just been plunking away. The protagonist is fleshing out nicely, and I’m feeling really good about where the piece is heading. Hm…? Of course! I’d love to come to your engagement party this weekend…”
~~LB~~
