Friends and family, even a few strangers, have asked me what it’s like to write a book. Allow me to share how my summer has been so far:
- I am writing while working. Meaning: I have a business to run and clients to work with. I have to figure out how to balance it all or not. Or just give in to the sometimes chaos, and the sometimes empty schedule. I am a planner, a project person, a do-er. I should be writing more, then but alas. . . writing is hard. And, sitting down to write when your mind is worried about clients or not having enough clients, is hard.
- I am often in my pajamas until midday. I smell bad. I’ve forgotten to brush my teeth. I did make myself breakfast and a cup of tea, which kick my brain into high gear but generally, I don’t eat much. I am working or writing or both at the same time (with several word docs going at once) by 9am. I had every intention to get up and hike this morning but words came first and my fingers hit the keyboard before I could change into appropriate attire. I usually snap out of it and shower around 3pm to make it to an afternoon yoga class because my lower back is jacked from this chair I’ve been in all day or from sitting on the couch, which now has an indent from my ass.
- I sometimes don’t even get out of bed. I just get my breakfast and tea and laptop, and head back to my cozy bed where I can comfortably write, work, take calls, or whatever. And nap. I nap a lot and being in pjs all day helps facilitate this.
- Sometimes days go by before I’ve written a thing or edited a chapter. I can’t help it. I have to walk away. I need a walk, a bath, a night out more than I need to write.
- I wish I was secluded far from the distractions of life. I love my little writing retreat house nestled in the foothills of Santa Fe but some days I long for a different scene and setting where I am not distracted by the laundry, the dishes in the sink, and the mail piled on my desk. I wish for a place where I could be tied to a comfy chair that doesn’t jack my back and lets me free flow my creativity until my book is done. This magical mystical place doesn’t exist. I’ve been offered a retreat place in Taos I should take my friend up on but I know I will be distracted there, too, by the scenery that is Taos with its delicious food and weird neighbors.
- I can find distraction in anything. I am not disciplined. Oh yes, I can sit and write or work for 5 hours straight without food or drink but I can also distract myself for hours on end. Answer that text for a meetup for lunch? Sure. Go have a cocktail at a new place? Why not. Stroll the aisles at a consignment store? Sounds fun! Take a drive to “clear my head?” Makes perfect sense. Book meetings back to back for a week straight? Absolutely, see #1.
- Writing is fucking hard work. I cuss more than I ever have. I talk to myself out loud more than ever and punctuate my own sentences with Fuck all the time. I use fuck freely in sentences with respectable people in meetings and am grateful they think I am no bullshit. I have no more bullshit space in my life.
- Living your ending is equally fucking hard. You see, when you are writing about your work, you are constantly working/writing/working/writing. It’s how it’s going to get done. But I finally chose my own ending. And it’s done.
- I am funnier than ever. At least I think so. I have to have a sense of humor to stand myself. I spend great amounts of time alone, fucking swearing to myself so I better tell myself a good joke or laugh at my smelly self because no one else is going to. Who wants to date this? I have fantasies of being supported by a great lover who brings me tea and rubs my shoulders when I’ve been slouched too long at my desk. But really, who wants to date this right now? Oh, they think it’s romantic to date a writer/worker but then realize what’s really going on. “You didn’t leave the house or get dressed til 5pm?” Hold on guys, I promise to clean up real nice for the book tour!
- I don’t sleep well. When I do, I’m tossing around in the bed like a ship in a storm. I know this because I wake up tied up in sheets and pillows and 50 different thoughts in my head all at once first thing in the morning.
- I cannot stop writing. In my head. In my sleep. In my dreams. In the bath. When I hike. I am writing sentences, phrases, scenes in my head. They stay in there for days sometimes, not pouring out until I sit down with the strict discipline I was taught in Catholic school by the Nuns, to just write something. Anything. And then it flows. For five fucking hours.
- I lie. I tell my friends I am writing all day/night/weekend when in fact I am pacing around the house looking for a distraction that will take me away from writing that I can also pretend is part of the writing process. I can find an excuse and a reason for everything.
- I am exhausted. This book has been in the works for over two years, has taken three different forms, and several different proposals. But it’s getting published, and I’m writing it, until it’s done and out of me.
- I write in lists. Goddammit! Sets of three’s with lots of commas and my editor finally pointed it out. And, it reminded me of an assistant I had once who deleted every single comma in a grant I wrote and said, “now read it.” I’m starting over.
- I love writing. I can’t wait for it to be done. And in my hands in paperback. And then I will start another one.
I’ve consulted with various resources (writer friends, and other – let’s call them Santa Fe woo-woo healers, astrologers, and the like) and they all have confirmed that I am in perfect balance. PJs or not, I am just fine. Keep on keeping on, you are doing fine. This is your balance. Embrace it.
So I am.
