Like a ton of writers, which could be from 6-20 if one wants to be pedantic about it and it seems I chose to be, I struggle with sitting my fundament on a chair and making words appear. I don’t consider myself lazy, for I lead a fairly active life. I mean, I may not run or swim an ungodly number of miles as “fun,” but I get around. (Indirect shout-out to DM!) Nor do I really think of myself as undisciplined, though an objective evaluation on that point would prove me wrong. I am undisciplined about many things, but when it comes to doing what I want to do, I’m a temperamental child who can get stuff done consistently.
It appears that the key is that I write when I want to, but that isn’t it, either. I want to write far more often than I actually do write, so there’s something else there. I thought it might be—gasp—establishing a routine. That lasted about three days, as routine and I have the same easy relationship that dogs have with fire hydrants, me being the dog. I then tried the idea of deadlines, like when I had a blog I posted to three times a week and ended up writing over 1,100 pieces for. The deadline idea also helped me write over 60 flash fiction stories in barely three months intended to impress and entertain my then-fiancé. But all of that writing was based on an external (public) deadline, and brief bursts of one-and-done energy. A novel requires more than that, or so I think. And the lady did marry me, so the stories worked wonders, or so I think.
While mentoring a couple of writers, I marveled at how productive they were. They would return every week with 30-40 pages of material, an amount I used to be able to produce. It dawned on me that they were embracing the “write often to hone your craft” idea I had told them helped me find my style and voice. So given my meager or non-existent output, was I so jaded and self-absorbed that I didn’t think I needed to do that anymore? Of my options, I chose “No,” but a part of me said: “Quantity does lead to quality, so what’s your excuse, blockhead?” Sounded like Lucy, which happens to be my mother’s name. We’re deep into the psychological forest here, Charlie Brown.
I also saw that they were writing a lot to find ways to impress me, as good students will do with great teachers. Okay, phenomenal teachers. But I didn’t feel the need to impress anyone anymore, except maybe my wife and she doesn’t buy my books claiming automatic co-authorship under the marriage license. I should ask my lawyer about that. So was it motivation, that I no longer had a need to impress, or that I had lost motivation because I hadn’t impressed enough people? Tough call, but the former felt more truthful that the latter: I could always keep writing to find a larger audience, but I was no longer immediately galvanized by needing to show off (the informal synonym to “impress”.)
And eventually, the answer hit me: energy. The energy I put into writing seemed easier to harness years ago. I wrote blog posts and flash fiction in coffee shops between business meetings, racing against the clock to wrap the piece up and never be late. I had to write and write fast: there was no other option. Now I have plenty of time, I have way more activity options, and given that writing is never easy, I gravitate towards some of the other options. And yet, when I choose to harness the energy, writing flows. Maybe not like a fire hose, but like a well-oiled sprinkler. I almost wrote “tinkler” as a call-back to my dog/fire hydrant remark. I amuse myself.
I have become more aware of my energy levels, and how I can use them to write. I may not have a routine, but I have the beginnings of a habit that can help me harness my energy to write more often, instead of 1-2 times a week. I know I could have said “choice” rather than “harness,” but harnessing is an active process I can feel better and more focused about, and that’s what matters most for me and my writing.
