Owl be sure to tell a whale of a tale

The goal for January was daily writing on Good Birds Don’t Fly Away. The goal has been elusive. Which is to say, I have in no way been creating the conditions that would allow me to meet that goal with ease. Or even with effort. Instead, I have faffed around, wasted time, complained about how writing is so haaaaaard, sewed two sweatshirts, one pair of leggings, and a dress, started a kitchen renovation, binge-watched Nashville season four, and most of Schitt’s Creek, read a couple books, and a stack of magazines, and eaten a lot of cheese and crackers.

In some ways, all this procrastination can be considered research, for the course I’m teaching next month through the Writers’ Federation of Nova Scotia, called Getting Out of Your Own Way So You Can Just Write. When they asked me what I wanted to teach on, the one aspect of writing in which I feel truly expert is procrastination. Consider the first half of January my field research in that case, and the second half… is also field research, for overcoming one’s natural urge to do as little writing as possible because, see above: writing is so haaaaaard.

I would love to tell you that I magically found my own way from the first bout of field research to the second, but, as usual, it takes a village to pull this writer out of torpor and into productivity.

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Pictured: Village.

First of all, as always, the poet Sue Goyette intervened to tell me what’s what. She did it a number of times, gently, in person, and when that didn’t seem to have the desired effect, she sent me a card in the mail. An invitation to my own writing. Thoughtfully written, it invited me to consider the conditions under which a story living in the wilderness might consent to come spend a little time with me in a clean well-lighted place. I carried the card around for a full week before I was ready to create the conditions necessary for work. That little owl kitchen timer I’ve had for a while, procured at the suggestion of Jessica Marsh, and never employed till this morning. The Pomodoro method was seconded by my pal Mackenzie, who additionally offered the strategy of making a little tick on a piece of paper every time one is tempted to turn one’s attention from the matter at hand. The coffee is, I think, an obvious helpmeet. The sharpie, again, is an old friend. The grey notebook was given to me by, I think, my aunt, or perhaps my mother. Someone who’s long seen who and what I am, in any event. The notion of handwriting was brought to the fore for me by Joel Thomas Hynes. Fallsy Downsies was written entirely by hand. Good Birds Don’t Fly Away will be a hybrid, I think. A week’s worth of hand-writing followed by a day or two of typing up. The pile of already-printed-on-one-side paper comes courtesy of my work at Propriometrics Press, which also affords me the time to get my own work done. Not pictured: Kev, who understood intrinsically when I announced, I am getting out of this bed in seven minutes, and then I am going to write, and so left me alone to do just that.

Things that helped: I wrote about my intention to write, and about what I would need do to in order to create the conditions that would make writing happen. Then I did the things on the list (pay some bills, write some invoices, tidy my writing room, drink some water so that I feel well-rested, go to bed at an appropriate time to achieve the same result). Then, I actually came into my writing room, set the timer, and did the things. And you know what? It totally worked, you guys. I totally wrote. Next step: Do it again tomorrow, and Monday, and every weekday going forward. Thanks, village. This one’s for you.