The Tortured Writer (Or, I Am A Wimp)
If you were a fly on the wall at my house last Monday, here’s what you would have seen: me, wearing multiple layers of sweaters, a scarf around my neck, gloves on my hands, lying under a duvet with flannel cover, reading. We lost power for a day and night and I was trying my best to keep warm. The irony that I was reading a novel about the Dust Bowl and the horrors the refugees faced in California was not lost on me.
I am a wimp.
I am coddled and comfortable all the time. If I get cold, I turn up our mini-split, which warms the room in an instant, or I put my “warm thing” (a pouch filled with flax and lavender) in the microwave to place behind my back.
If I am thirsty, I pour a glass of water from the tap. Good, clean, water, I might add. If I’m hungry, I open the frig and grab a string cheese, or rummage in the cupboards (which are bursting with food) for crackers. If I’m tired, I drink coffee, if I’m overwrought I pour a glass of wine.
Coddled and comfortable.
(Which is probably why I hate camping.)
At one point while we were without power, the sun came out and streamed through my office window. I sat at my desk and tried to write. I got a couple of small things done, two notes taken. But I was so distracted, thinking, when will the power come back on? How cold will it get in here? What will I fix for dinner and how? It was only the next day, with heat and light restored, that I could properly concentrate on my writing once again.
Besides confirming once and for all that I am a wimp, this experience confirmed something for me. I have no excuse to not write. None. I have a functional computer, plenty of paper and pens, an office that is warm in the winter and cool in the summer. I don’t have to strain to see by candlelight and when I’m finished writing I can open the frig and make something good for dinner.
I have no excuses.
Except the stupid things I make up in my head. Like, who is ever going to want to read this. My writing isn’t good enough. I can’t believe I just wrote something so stupid. And on and on. The same tired old crap that has worn neurons in my brain into deep ruts, like the tracks left by pioneers on the Oregon Trail.
Maybe I make that shit up because everything else in my life is in place. I have read that the human brain tends toward a negative bias. And, in truth, I’m someone who is generally optimistic and cheerful. Sometimes disgustingly so. Why then, does my brain run on down these tired roads? One way or another, it forces me into the old tortured writer cliché.
So here’s an idea. Let’s prove it all wrong. The tortured writer, the I must suffer to create meme, the brain with the negative bias. Let’s dispense with it all and just go do the best writing that we possibly can. Now there’s a thought, right?
ALSO—I send props and love to all of you who suffered in the cold this week. I hope your power is back on, and I hope you have water to drink. And I hope you will be able to get back to your writing soon.
(This post was originally sent out in my newsletter, along with book recommendations, helpful links for writers, and more. If you’d like to subscribe, there’s a sign-up box at the bottom of the home page.)