All I do is write.
This seems obvious to the naked eye, but my rather clothed eye didn’t see it until I slapped today’s schedule in front of it, which transpired roughly as follows:
4:30 AM wakeup time. Groaned for about 30 minutes.
5 AM. Instead of going back to sleep/reading/playing Tetris ‘til my eyes bled like a normal person, I hoisted myself out of bed and had a long shower.
6 AM. Ate a weird mix of cereal.
6:30 AM. Went to work mega early to write.
12 PM. Took a bit of a break to do some recreational writing and sit in the toilets to concentrate on not passing out from the (not recommended) combination of several shots of caffeine and no sleep.
4:30 PM, exactly 12 hours after awaking. Came home and began work on writing right away.
9 PM, present time. Still writing.
That’s about 11 hours (excluding travel, eating and passing out) of writing.
You might not think I’d frequent the pen so often, as obsessive readers of my blog. It’s certainly true that I have not always been this way. Tumbleweed, dust bunnies and the Silent Hill siren all frequent here regularly. Yet whereas this used to be because writing all day at work made me want to throw all technology (and, particularly, Microsoft Word’s paperclip dude) in a fiery river, it’s now because I yo-yo between different writing outlets uncontrollably and at very high speeds, for a double-digits amount of hours a day.
Not to say I don’t have my days, weeks and sometimes even months off. There are times in which I contribute to nothing and no-one, choosing to curl up on my bed like a bitter fetus, wondering if “motivation” is a cruel myth set up by company CEO’s to make us work harder. (FYI, mental exertion is the only sport writing entails – vaulting over the obstacles procrastination pops in your head. That, and lots of typing/scribbling. Pretty sure I have burly fingers at this point).
A picture of my thumb with a six pack that I created on MS Paint, and further proof that my only talent is writing.
What has changed now is that the times in which I am writing are far more frequent than the times in which I am creating conspiracy theories about the origin of motivation.
What else is there?
In writing constantly, I wonder sometimes if I’ve condemned other hidden talents to eternal negligence. I wonder what I might do, if I ever were to spread out my faculties and do more than writing. (Being an MS Paint artist is not included in these reveries.) Maybe I would be a stellar tap dancer (unlikely) or filmmaker (unlikely) or actress (fairly likely, if it were a role in which my character loved dogs and possessed a British accent to rival Elizabeth Windsor’s). Maybe I would be more vocally eloquent (60% of the time I greet people with the word “sorry”. Room for improvement). Maybe I would be a great French chef like my grandma. Maybe I would be green fingered instead of butch-fingered (see above).
Of course, maybe I would discover I’m a talentless racoon and spend the rest of my days ferreting around begging for scraps. Who knows?
Writing’s tightening its grip on me – and I have a couple of theories as to why.
Writing – and not writing, in equal measure – are tools I both use as tools for procrastination when I can’t be bothered to do other things.
In fact, right now, in writing this article about my love for and theories around constantly writing, I am avoiding hoovering my bedroom or assessing the two day old pizza in my fridge, or clearing up the dramatic rubble from this weekend’s present-wrapping shenanigans.
Writing takes me away from everyday mundanity, and not-writing takes me away from the mental exertion of writing. It’s my double-edged avoidance tool.
The heart stuff.
I also believe I write constantly because I love it. My pens don’t demand I use them, after all, and my burly thumbs are only a little intimidating – not enough to make me write if I didn’t want to, though.
I love turning my thoughts over in my head, like playdough, then slapping them down on a piece of paper (like throwing same aforementioned playdough at a wall and watching it stick). I am not fantastic at communicating all the time, so the ability to say something important, or emotive, or stupid – via writing – is a gift to me.
- I am the world’s most adept procrastinator, and use writing and not-writing to effectively procrastinate all the time
- Writing is my lifeblood
- My thumbs need cardio
- I am a racoon desperately clinging onto one talent.
I’ll leave that with you.