Stealing Time

One of the biggest myths around writing is that in order to do it we must have great swathes of uninterrupted time.  The myth that we must have "time" - more time - in order to create is a myth that keeps us from using the time we do have.  If we are forever yearning for "more," we are forever discounting what is offered. The Right to Write, Julia Cameron

Like most wanna-be writers, I have this lovely fantasy about the "perfect writing life."  I'd be living in a waterfront home with a writing room open to the sun and sound of the sea.  I'd have long uninterrupted days to drink coffee, read, walk the sandy beach, and ponder whatever work was in progress. I'd dress all in cool, neutral colors, my clothing loose fitting and airy, yet elegant.  (Think Diane Keaton's character in the movie Something's Gotta Give.)

Of course, my life is nothing like that, and I suspect yours isn't either.  Truthfully, that kind of lifestyle probably isn't as conducive to writing as one might think.  As humans, we need the pressure placed on us by the outside world to provide the stimulation which fuels our creative thoughts.

Writing, like anything worth doing, requires time, a commodity which seems in shorter and shorter supply in modern life.  With a little discipline and determination, you can steal time to write no matter how busy your schedule.   If you're like me, you spend 10 or 15 minutes every morning checking in with your "social network" - reading Facebook and Twitter updates, checking e-mail, glancing at the headlines.  The first step in finding daily writing time is to set your computer home page to a blank Word document.  Better yet, don't even turn the computer on - pick up a spiral notebook and write in long hand for 15 minutes instead.

Part of finding daily writing time is changing your perception about what "real writing" is.  You don't have to write 10 pages of perfect prose every day.  You do have to write something every day - a few sentences which build into a few paragraphs, which over time might become an article, a personal essay, a short story, a novel.

Think about your daily schedule ~ where can you steal some writing time for yourself?

So Off They Go...

There's an icy rain falling in southern Michigan.  There were even some rumbles of thunder a while ago.  But I've spent the past couple of hours at the home of some dear friends who are now just 9 days away from their epic move to Nanjing, China, so I've barely had a chance to notice the weather. Whatever possessed them to host an open house party just over a week before their big move is beyond me...but then, that's what I love about them.  They're so much more fearless in all ways than we are.  They know what to cherish and how to honor it.  They have a good grasp of the "big picture" that is life.  In more practical ways, they're organized and energetic and decisive.  (Right now, I hear my friend C. snorting  in self deprecation "Yeah, right!")

But still, I can't muster up the courage to move myself to a different state for three months out of the year, much less move myself to a totally different country/culture for three entire years like they're about to do.  Where does courage like that come from?

The friends who attended tonight's soiree were mostly their friends from the neighborhood, some of whom I've met but others I had not.  It was interesting to listen to their reactions to the move - some were thinly veiled disapproval masked as disbelief.  "So, do people really eat insects on a stick over there?" I heard someone ask.  "What are you going to do with yourself all day?" one friend inquired of C. with great concern. "Wow, your place over there looks really nice! It has an actual bathroom and not a hole in the ground!" was another comment.

Before  you say to yourself "how provincial are these people!" remember where we are.  We're talking a middle class neighborhood in the suburbs of Detroit where most of the people have their roots in the auto industry or it's relations.  Many of these people have never traveled outside the boundaries of the United States, and if they have, it might have been on a tour of duty -  or a tour sponsored by American Express.  We are not a worldly bunch, for the most part.  For a pair of our own to move to the far east and remake their lives is quite a phenomenon.

We're a little bit scared for them.

We're a little bit envious of them.

We're a whole lot sad for ourselves.

"It's going to be a honking big empty crater in MY life," one of C.'s friends confided.  "C is always the one who calls up and says "Are you in the mood for a field trip?"  and I say "of course," and off we go, not knowing where we'll end up.  I don't know anybody else like that."

Neither do I.

But one thing I've learned in the last ten years is that relationships can survive long distance.  Thanks to modern technology, even China is within the realm of reachability.   They may not allow Facebook over there (they don't), but there are VPN (virtual private networks) and  also Skype for chatting real time (audio and type).  I know I'll be "seeing" my friends fairly often over the next three years.  No, it won't be at coffee hour after church, or at Red Robin for a burger after the guys' concert, but we'll keep our ties of friendship close.  They're  worth the extra effort to make sure that happens.

Even though we have to say 再见 (goodbye) for a while, I have a feeling fortune will bring us together as friends once again somewhere down the road.

And I'm already looking forward to that day.

Knowing What's Good For Me

Wednesday morning I awoke with an unpleasantly familiar sensation of tightness in my upper chest, as if something was squeezing my trachea, making breathing somewhat difficult.  I say this sensation is familiar because it's a condition I've experienced countless times in my life, beginning at a very young age.  My upper respiratory system is my Achilles heel - every illness begins and ends there, with coughing and wheezing and laryngitis.  Oh my. This week's malady didn't quite follow the usual pattern, which is to start with the nasal passages and work its way into the pharynx and larynx, finally ending up in the bronchial tubes poised to attack the lungs if I haven't been smart enough to get to the doctor for antibiotics.  This time it started right out with a dry, hacking cough.  It wasn't too bad, though, not bad enough to keep me from sleeping at night or working during the day.

Until today, that is.  This morning, I woke up completely congested and wheezing loud enough to be heard across the state.  My cough had morphed from a polite little bark into the full blown seal bellow that scares the dogs out of the room.

So I headed to my local Urgent Care, where I found eight people in line ahead of me, all of them coughing with varying degrees of severity.  I quickly became the champion in the group, drawing everyone's attention with my deep bass outbursts.  "My goodness," I heard more than once, "you sound terrible!"

"You should be home in bed," my seat partner told me.

"Believe me, I'd like nothing more," I replied, 90 minutes into my waiting time.

Finally, I was called back into the examining area where I answered the usual series of obligatory questions.  A very gentle Nurse Practitioner in training came in and listened to all areas of my chest with her stethoscope.

"Your lungs sound pretty clear," she said when she finished.

But the doctor, a nice older woman who looked a little bit like Jessica Tandy, disagreed. "Oh, you're really wheezing down there," she said after one listen.  "You may have walking pneumonia.  Let's get a pulse ox and an X-ray."

At first my oxygen level reading was rather alarming.  I'm no doctor, but I know that anything under 95 isn't good, and I was starting out with a 93.  The nurse instructed me to take deep breaths in and out of my mouth, which I did for a few seconds and the level rose to 97.  "Good girl," I was told, and trundled off to X-ray.

After a few minutes, my doctor returned to the room.  "All clear," she told me happily.  "It's just a bad case of bronchitis. I'll get you a Z-pack and an inhaler to help with that wheezing."

I know a Z-pack, or Zithromycin, is the treatment of choice for bronchitis.  It's been prescribed for me on two occasions in my long history of upper respiratory maladies.  Both times, it did absolutely no good and I've gotten pneumonia shortly after completing the medication.

"Z-packs don't work for me," I told her.

"Oh, what do you take then?" she asked.

"Usually Levaquin," I replied.

"I would have prescribed that if you had pneumonia, but it's much too strong for bronchitis."

"But I've taken it several times before for these infections," I said.

"No, you don't need that," she insisted. "The Z-pack is what's always prescribed for bronchitis."

Hmm. I was no match for the "it's always done this way" monster, especially not today, sick and exhausted as I was.  Nor am I surprised that doctors don't listen to us, even though we might possibly know what's best for ourselves.   After all they're  trained to follow the prescribed protocol, and it has been drummed into their heads time and again that not doing so can be dangerous - for the patient, and for themselves and their malpractice insurance premiums.

But still, I've spent 55 years with this body.  I usually know what's good for it and what isn't.  That's not to say I always do right by myself, either, although I always have my own best interests at heart.

We'll see if the Z-pack does right by me this time.

I'll keep you posted.

Time Lines

This week has been a real killer.  Ever since the time changed Saturday night, I feel as if I've been chasing that extra hour around like a mad woman.  No matter what I do, it keeps eluding me.  I'm behind on everything from laundry to literature, with no end in sight. It would happen that Daylight Savings Time would take effect on a particularly busy week, one  in which there was a school concert to work around as well as an extra heavy work schedule.  Business is literally booming at our office these days, and though that is of course a good thing, it means more work all down the line.  I'm also in the process of training two new people for my department, which is never my favorite thing to do.  They are both very lovely and competent women, but I feel horribly inadequate when I have to teach people things.   Ironic, really, this aversion I have to teaching, when as a child it was the only thing I ever wanted to "be" when I grew up.    One of my earliest favorite games of make- believe was playing school, and I clearly remember lining my stuffed animals up on the couch and teaching them lessons in reading and writing.  (My classroom was horribly deficient in math skills, I'm afraid.)

Somehow the reality of teaching does not compare with my idyllic childhood dream of  it.  I admit that I'm impatient with the process, but mostly I'm insecure about myself.  Although I feel perfectly capable of performing my job, and I am quite competent at it, I start to second guess myself whenever I have to teach someone else how to do it.  Why do we do things this way? I'll think as I start to explain a process.  Why haven't I figured out a way to do this better?  And what if I'm really not as good at this as I think I am?  After all, who am I to be teaching anyone anything?

Silly, I know.  But it's stressing me out, as the saying goes.

That, and the dratted missing hour I keep searching for.

One thing I dearly love about Daylight Savings Time is the fact that I can sit in my living room with the blinds open and write by natural daylight at 7:43 p.m.  That is very nice.  It actually gives me hope that the long, long winter is on its way out and that spring will finally come again.

And hope is something I always have time for.

Lima Beans

Doing what comes naturally is easy. We can play from our strengths all day long. But playing from our strengths isn’t going to make us great. If we aspire to greatness we’re going to have to learn to work through our weaknesses.  Albert Berg, The Insanity Files

Many of us grew up with the clean plate rule - eat everything on your plate, whether you like it or not.  In his blog post entitled, "Eat Your Lima Beans: The Importance of Becoming the Writer You Aren't," Albert Berg reflects on this edict, and notes that, in retrospect, his mother was teaching him an important life (and writing) lesson, i.e. it's just as important to do the things you don't like, as to do the things you love.

Perhaps its even more important.  After all, the effort involved in doing the things we love is mitigated by the pure pleasure we get from doing them.  But the effort we must put forth to accomplish  tasks which don't come naturally, easily, or happily, is much more difficult to bear.

When it comes to writing, my "lima beans" are definitely the revision process.  I have no problem getting started, getting words on the screen, but when it comes to revising, every word sticks in my throat.  I realize that most of my difficulty lies in being unable to discern what's good and what isn't, so I'm never sure where to start the revision process.

The writer I am is great at getting the story out there.  The writer I'm not is the one who can go back and refine it into pure literary gold.

How about you? What are the "lima beans" of your literary life?  What can you do to make them palatable?