I will write today, I say to myself.
This is how it begins. I’m moving towards progress. My brain is warming up, my fingers limbering. Ready to pound the keyboard in earnest.
Then I get a sandwich.
This is my process.
Writing, I’ve determined, is long periods of procrastination interspersed with limited portions of Actual Work. Those subjects and predicates are followed by self-loathing, doubt, and cereal. The editing comes next. Endless poring over paragraphs that makes stomachs turn and brows furrow until the writer feels the need to interact with other humans.
Then, some years later, a finished product.
I figured out this exhausting and largely fruitless endeavor will be with me for the rest of my days. Like a felony conviction, or that disease where you poop a lot.
At the tail-end of 24 years old, I moved to San Francisco. Somewhat in response to rebuffed attempts at full-time employment, but mostly to focus on my writing. It was perfect for my restless soul. I needed out of the Boston suburbs, a place with jobs I didn’t really want, heavy traffic, and the peculiar smells of my neighbors’ Armenian cooking.
California was a new everything for me. I had a lot of time to write. Or not, as I’ll explain.
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This is a guide for the Promisers. The ones with hopes and dreams, who speak of them often, and longingly so. You remember in high school English they said they’d be a writer someday. And, sure, they still want to be.
But it’s, like, complicated, man.
They watch The Office or Saturday Night Live and salivate at the thought of being in a writers’ room. They tell you a funny idea, but get flustered when nobody laughs. I’m still fleshing it out, he or she says.
They are the ones saying: I’ll get to it.
Work’s busy, they groan. Flabbergasted that progress requires hours logged off the clock of normal society.
It took two years to get published after I moved. In between was a chunk of time where I drifted along with only my words and the mercurial checks from restaurant jobs keeping me afloat.
Writing, as many will attest, is hard. It’s really hard, actually. They have entire sections of the bookstore devoted to the process alone. Books with many chapters, like plot development and making sure your dialogue doesn’t resemble a Twilight movie.
But don’t worry. Not writing is much easier. I’ll tell you how.
The first, steadfast rule is to get published. That initial by-line is critical. This means you’ve accomplished what was previously unaccomplishable. The admiration alone from peers, family, and your own delusional psyche will put you on Easy Street for, at minimum, the next six months.
This must happen at a small publication. Mine was a lifestyle magazine, which, I’m convinced, nobody but the families of the writers and of the people written about actually read. I mention the magazine to people, especially those in San Francisco, and their eyes glaze over. They give me a vague Oh-pause-Yeah answer. Which means they’re being polite and don’t know what I’m talking about.
I leave it be. After all, it’s not about them.
So if you want to not write, heed this advice. This is for you, dreamers of the golden dream.
If you made it this far.
The Rules.
Write. Or, at the very least, think about writing.
Let’s not go crazy here. This could be a sentence or an idea. Something, mostly, to be developed later.
Find something else to do. Anything. Literally.
As I recall, in my younger days I’d whine and whimper when summoned to wash dishes, but now it’s my first reflex when I sit down at the computer. Distractions are key, so ramp those up.
Examples of Distractions:
Bad television shows
Good television shows
Pornography
Get a job that taxes you mentally and (sometimes) physically.
This came in the tumultuous, boozy world of restaurants. I never worked in one before San Francisco, even going so far some years back as to swear I never would. I scoffed at the idea of putting plates in front of grown-ups and sulky children. I most recently tied bibs on Asians, Europeans, and every Tom, Dick, and Louise from the Midwest.
The turn-and-burn seafood box on Pier 39, complete with bad tippers and entitled tourists with their kindergarten English, ensured that at the end of a long shift the last fucking thing I wanted to do was sit down and write.
Read something.
Not a blog or your Twitter feed. Like, a book. Made from paper. Specifically by someone who’s famous. Hopefully this provides some insight. Because you just spent 30 dollars at the Milwaukee airport.
Examples of Actual Books:
The Great Gatsby — F. Scott Fitzgerald
Wuthering Heights — Emily Bronte
If I Did It — O.J. Simpson
Procure a nice pen. Or have someone give it to you.
Every writer needs a sturdy pen. And can use it for the next rule:
Jot things in a moleskin notebook or legal pad.
This looks official. Especially if you’re in public or an enclosed space with strangers. Once the notes are done, take a 24 to 48 hour break.
You earned it. After all, you did write by hand.
Walk around your apartment, talk to your roommates.
No brainer if they’re home. If not, consult another step.
Go out with friends, drink heavily until the early morning hours.
This will spurn creativity, because, of course, your wallet is empty and you’re hung over. But it’ll bring you into the company of Hemingway and Fitzgerald. They had their fair share of booze and became literary gods. A seemingly effortless turn of events.
Like the fancy pen, a crippling headache and eight hours of gastrointestinal issues from that questionable bodega sandwich will cement authenticity.
Overthink.
Dating. Your hairline. Where garbage actually goes. Your bank account. Why your shoulder still hurts from that tackle you made in high school as the place kicker, even though you played soccer and didn’t belong in football pads.
All of the above. Over and over.
Use technology. Often.
I just got an iPhone, and it is amazing. I now have all that distracted me on my computer in my pocket. With a smartphone you can check Instagram from more than one place and play those stupid games where you’ll only advance levels once you pay the $1.99 fee.
Watch trailers online to preview movies you’ll never see.
Killing Season is an actual film. One you’ll never watch. Not even on television. But it is DeNiro and Travolta. Give it a look. That, and the others starring the dude you remember from that show.
Eat.
This will keep your energy up. Do so in your house, or outside.
Check your email.
Could be something there. Could be.
Listen to podcasts of other creative people talking about creativity.
This validates your blank page, because, through the power of osmosis, you might get similar ideas that put Judd Apatow, Tina Fey, and Steve Martin where they are now. At this point in your 20s, it’s all about the Maybe.
Play a musical instrument.
This tricks you into doing something creative for the sake of creativity. And, obviously, never write your own music. Play other people’s songs, but sing the second chorus differently.
Exercise.
Running blows. But it does help prolong the overthinking. So go for like two miles. Or however far you can muster.
Just tell people three.
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So there’s your start, a damn good one at that. These rules ensure your novel or screenplay or collection of essays will be completed within the next decade. Better late than never, some say.
Now go take a break. You must be exhausted.
