I'm
always intimidated and inspired in equal measure by highly-structured writing
routines. I'd love to be a disciplined writer, waking up with the sun and
nestling myself into my perfect writing space, which of course will impart
creativity by osmosis. I'd somehow make a cup of tea without disturbing my
sleeping husband and dog, and by the time they awoke, I would have written
2,000 words, as fresh as a daisy.
In
reality, though, my writing day is more . . . let's say "freeform."
Though intellectually I am a morning person, I also have the sort of insomnia
that manifests as my eyes flying open at 3am, so when my husband's alarm goes
off I'm more likely to burrow down into the blankets and groan consolingly to
myself. From time to time I do fling off my blankets with confidence and
squeeze in some 6am writing, but those days are rare and I don't trust them.
Once
we've eaten and my husband leaves for work, there's a strangely magical half
hour where the world is still quiet and I feel like the only one awake, where
it's possible to dash off a few inspired sentences. But once I resolve to take
the dog out, the magic breaks apart like smoke. If the morning is nice I might
return home with the spirit of it clinging to me and channel it into my
writing. But more often than not, it's time to work day-job work.
I'm
a freelance writer, so my days are spent largely in a strange state of working
and writing and thinking about one while I'm doing the other. I sit down at my
desk to work-write something, and my gaze and attention pass over the notebook
I use for write-writing. Or I'm write-writing and I get the nagging sense that
I've been at it too long, and I need to move onto the next task in my
work-write list. Working from home can feel like a mixed blessing - on paper I
have all the time in the world to write; I should have written ten novels by
now. But when I'm on the clock, my head tends to stay there even if I'm not
actually performing work at the time. On the plus side, though, sometimes my
bed is my office.
Sometimes
I'll haul self and laptop to a coffeeshop to write, and I try to ignore the
existence of wi-fi. There's something about making that walk to a different
location and paying money for coffee and a snack that snaps my brain to
attention, and I'm always, always productive. Other times, I leave my laptop at
home and just walk aimlessly. Whether I'm actively thinking about my novel or
not, there's a general loosening that Doris Lessing discusses in volume two of
her autobiography: "Work begins. I do not sit down but wander about the
room. I think on my feet, while I wash up a cup, tidy a drawer, drink a cup of
tea, but my mind is not on these activities ... And this goes on when you are
shopping, cooking, anything. You are reading but find the book has lowered
itself: you are wool-gathering. The creative dark. Incommunicable."
Despite
how this makes me seem like I wobble about my writing life, careening off walls
and distracting myself, I find these little micro-routines are much better for
me. Maybe I'm not the sort of person who can or should have a
highly-disciplined writing routine. Maybe it's best to snatch out little
moments and inspirations. Stolen victories, and a completed novel at the end of
it.
Samantha Garner's short fiction and poetry
has previously appeared in Broken Pencil,
Sundog Lit, Kiss Machine, The Fiddlehead, Storychord, and WhiskeyPaper. Her novel The Quiet is Loud will be published by
Invisible Publishing in Fall 2021. She is based in Toronto.
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