There’s a restlessness, a nervousness, and an edgy sort of despair that creeps in when I haven’t written for a period of time. I become irritable. I become anxious and unsure about dealing with the world around me.
I’m not sure if all writers go through this. And you might not even be a writer at all. Perhaps you are creative in another way. Or, maybe you’ve never experienced these feelings at all. Lucky you if you haven’t.
I haven’t written in over a month (other than the occasional blog post), and I’m climbing the walls. I was just over halfway through my latest book of Sci-fi stories when I stopped. My stopping had nothing to do with the stories or writing. I stopped to watch events unfold around me. On the one hand I was afraid to go back to the writing. I could escape into a story, the writing of it; but whenever I have done this, when I resurfaced, when I stuck my head up and took a look around, the world seemed crazier than when I had left it. Between politics and Covid-19, and just the general vibes of being around people in the grocery store, or anywhere . . . it just all seems overwhelming.
But let me bring it back to the writing. Whenever I’m not writing, not letting the creative beast within express itself, I grow restless and uneasy. I become irritable. I know that all I have to do is sit down and start again and I’ll be fine. I’ll just read over the last bit of writing I had done and then start typing. It works out. Always! And there are always doubts, the fear that maybe it won’t work this time. Now, logically, I know it will. I have never, ever, had reason to believe that it won’t all work out. It always has.
And yet I procrastinate. There is the restlessness. My thoughts are all over the place. I can’t relax. I’ll pick up a book and start reading. That works for a while to distract me. Or I can watch The Great Courses, get into the lectures. That’s mostly what I did this time. The course on King Arthur was fascinating. And I watched many others. All the while, though, there was, and is something hanging over me, nagging at me. I know I should be writing. Only by letting the stories flow out, letting the characters roam and express themselves, only then will I feel the full release, the joy. There is a happiness that comes with working on a writing project. It is difficult to explain. It is the passion, the flow. After writing a great scene, a movement of vivid interaction of characters, all the interplaying of events, there is a happiness, an indescribable joy. To say the process is cathartic is an understatement. I feel like doing cartwheels. I then feel refreshed, giddy. I then want to call up friends and go to dinner, or go do something interactive, something in the real world.
Yet still I procrastinate. Why? I feel too restless, too irritable. My thoughts aren’t necessarily racing, and yet they are flitting about. I can’t focus. But I know that all I have to do is sit down and start. It’s crazy.
There is one thing that has helped me in the past. It is something that takes very little effort. It is something that I can do that requires focus, something very easy. It is something that requires no more than following a light with your eyes and then pressing a key. Crazy as it sounds, this activity works for me. What is it? A piano keyboard. You know the one; you pick a song, place your fingers on the keyboard and then follow along with the lights. A key lights up and you press that key. It is very simple. This activity isn’t the least bit strenuous. It might be strenuous if I was actually trying to learn to play the song. I don’t. I can’t. Or, rather, I guess maybe I could if I put in the time and effort. But since I am using the keyboard for other purposes, it matters not at all whether I can bang out a tune. I usually pick the first tune listed, which is “Hey Jude.” It’s funny, but after fifteen or twenty minutes of this, I’m much less restless. The light, and following along pressing keys, has gently guided my focus. My focus, or thoughts are less skittish and frantic. I feel calm enough to sit down at the computer and start writing. Will I actually do this? Will I continue to procrastinate? Where is the keyboard? Oh yeah, it is wedged in behind a stack of books. And the stand? I think it’s folded up under the couch. And then there is the matter of finding the stool. I think I know where that is . . .
I suppose some people, some writers, or creatives, would just go for a walk, or a bicycle ride, or maybe just exercise.
And my thoughts are off again, flitting first to John Lennon for obvious reasons, and then landing in a hotel lounge in St. Petersburg, Russia. Thoughts of “Hey Jude” always take me there now. On a visit to Russia a few years back, (pre-Putin days, so, okay quite a few years back . . .) I had wandered into the hotel lounge. After a night at the Mariinsky Ballet, some friends and I had returned to the hotel. They all decided to call it a night. I wasn’t tired. It was only around 10:00 p.m. so I went into the lounge and ordered a drink. The place was quiet. I sat at a table and nursed my drink for a few minutes. I sat staring out of the plate glass window into the darkness of night. The lounge was a couple of floors up, I believe, and I think a light snow had just begun to fall. The lights from behind the bar sparkled and glistened, reflecting cleanly and clearly in the glass of the window. The only occupants were myself, the bartender, and two women. The quietness of the room was interrupted by a group of four or five Brits wandering in. The group wasn’t loud or overly boisterous, but after ordering drinks, they sauntered over to a piano and one of them sat and started playing “Hey Jude.” The small group, all of whom were probably late twenties to early thirties in age, started singing. I sat wondering whether the man playing had perhaps actually learned the song on a piano with a lighted keyboard similar to mine. My thoughts were then interrupted by one of the two women who had been sitting at the bar. There had been a blonde and a brunette. The blonde stood before me. She asked if she could sit and join me. Both of the women were classily dressed, beautiful, polite. They weren’t tawdry or gaudy. Nor were they, I presumed, cheap. I was aware that the Russian mob had a deal with the hotels that allowed the women to work. In Soviet times it would have been the government running the girls for intelligence purposes, and these days, the connection was probably still there, however loose, between the mob and the state. The time I was there, Russia was still a fledgling, freewheeling, newly-formed democracy. No one was really sure what was going on, or who would take charge of the careening chaos that was prevalent. The place was more or less the wild west (or in this case, the wild east). Nominally, Yeltsin was in charge, Putin still hiding in the wings, an underling. Nothing else going on for either of us, the blonde sat sipping a coffee while I nursed my drink. In a smattering of Russian and English, we managed to hold a conversation about the beauty of the snow and other, noncommittal subjects . . .
And now, thoughts being what they are, flitting like birds from one branch to another, I have the urge to go watch the movie Red Sparrow. I could reread the book, which was pretty good. I can’t remember the author’s name off the top of my head. Red Sparrow is the first title of a trilogy. I haven’t read the other books, so I guess it would make more sense to read the second in the series. Or, am I thinking of Child 44? That was also a good book, and also the first in a trilogy.
And now I’m just remembering that John Le Carre passed away the other day. Maybe I’ll revisit George Smiley.
Or, perhaps I’ll write an espionage story of my own. I can use the memory that I recorded above as a springboard, a place to start. I can add in a few more details. Let’s see, is the man sitting at the table conversing with the lady simply keeping an eye on one of the Brits? Maybe even the one playing “Hey Jude.”
If only I can manage my focus . . . and sit down to write. We’ll see.