How to Write

1-

Open a tab on your browser to go to Google Docs. Notice a heading about what happens when you do 100 crunches a day, and click on that link instead. Skim the article, find it useless, and scold yourself for falling for clickbait. Go to Twitter to check the trending topics, then remember you haven’t played your Wordle. Consider new Wordle starters; debate going with your trusty options or living a little, for God’s sake. Go with your trusty starters, because, who are we kidding, you like to play it safe. Stare at the 3 yellow letters the starters have yielded, struggling to think of words that might work. Let your mind wander as you consider option after option. Get a phone call, walk away from the computer.

2-

Start reading “Educated” by Tara Westover on a week long visit to your in-laws. Become completely absorbed by the compelling story, the writing, the insights, that you beg off the action movie the adults are watching and instead go upstairs at 10 pm. Read page after page, chapter after chapter, until it’s 2 a.m. and your eyes are burning and bleary. Keep going anyway. Dog ear sections through out for their profundity. Stare exhaustedly at your tea the next morning, willing your body to wake up and re-energize as you think, “I know how to write non-fiction. I can do this. I can do this?” Nod absently at the children’s comments and quests for your attention. Repeat for Ann Patchett’s “This is the Story of a Happy Marriage” and Elamin Abdelmahamoud’s “Son of Elsewhere”.

3-

Decide that the source of your writer’s block is typing on the computer and resolve to buy a new notebook. Drive to Indigo after work and spend an hour walking the 3 aisles of their stationary section. Debate the merits of a hot pink journal that says “Seize the Day” across the front for its liveliness. Ultimately, decide that hot pink is too unserious for your pursuits and will only encourage you to write drivel. Consider multiple leatherbound notebooks. Check their price tags. Decide against them. Wander to the bestsellers section and peruse the titles. Scold yourself once more for not having written anything on the table. Wander back to the notebooks and finally settle on one that is gray and spiralbound. On your way to the checkout, stop at the candles and buy three for ambience.

4 –

As you’re preparing dinner, remember the existence of your blog, which hasn’t been updated for months. Finish stirring the stew and leave everything to simmer as you bring up the site on your phone. Check the date of your last post, which turns out to have been in the spring of last year. Eat dinner with your family, smiling outwardly and despairing inwardly at the slow death of your creativity. Resolve to post four times a week, no matter what, starting tonight. No excuses, seize the day and all that jazz. Get through the bedtime routine and hurry to your computer to log on. Get a “wrong password” message. Try repeatedly with every password you can think of. Stop just short of getting locked out. Request a password reset and refresh your email, waiting for an email that never comes. Call tech support. Stay on hold for 43 minutes, scrolling through Twitter while you wait. Get sucked into endless replies on a debate about a topic you don’t understand. Explain your predicament to a helpful agent who nevertheless takes ages to resolve your issue. Hang up, armed with your correct blog info. Check the time and see that it’s 11:30 pm. Sigh. Go to bed

5 –

Set up playdates for the kids at their friends’ place. Tell your husband it’s a writing day. Make a cup of tea, wash your face, light those candles you bought. Clear your desk of clutter and turn off your notifications. Sit. Stretch. Deep breathe. Open your brand new notebook. Pick up one of the four fountain pens you’ve lined up on the side of the desk. Hold the pen above the paper, considering for a moment the glorious possibilities as you wait for inspiration to wash over you. Sigh when nothing comes and open your prompts file. Look through line after line of thoughts you’d jotted down all week, too busy to do anything with them in the moment, but sure they were gems to be drawn from later. Feel hopeless as every one of these gems turns out to be ordinary, empty, flat. Stare at the wall. Stare at your candles. Watch the flames lick the air, turn and flick and twist as the wax melts down. Give it five more minutes. Push back your chair, blow out the candles, and go to weed the garden.

6 -

Open your notebook to a new page - the old page has only 2 lines on it, but your handwriting is messy and childish, and doesn’t inspire creativity; a fresh page will be better. Remember that you’ve been planning to do laundry for the last four days, and that multi-tasking is productive. Get up and go to the laundry room to put in the first load of towels and bedding. Call the kids, who are mercifully (terrifyingly?) quiet in their rooms and ask them to get you the towels from each bathroom. Watch as one kid goes to get the towels while the second one asks whether you’ve had a chance to order his new phone case. Tell him you haven’t. Watch as his face falls. Take him back with you to your laptop (Where is your laptop? Look around for your laptop). Order the phone case. Multi-tasking is productive. Return to the laundry room and wait. Keep waiting. Call down to the child who should have collected the various towels. Find out he got hungry and stopped off in the kitchen to make himself a grilled cheese sandwich. Give up on the towels and bedding and start with a load of clothes. Return to your closet to check on shirts that are just on the precipice of needing a wash. Start the first load of laundry. Return to your notebook. Decide that the moment has passed and that you need a nap.

7 –

Have a thought pop into your head as you are putting away the groceries. Feel your heart flutter. Rush to put away anything that will melt and grab your notebook from the junk drawer. Write, feeling the words pulse out of the ends of the pen as though spilling from your fingers. Write as fast as you can even though you can barely make out the words they’re rushing out of you so quickly. Start hunched over the dining table, unable to afford even the precious moment it will take to pull a chair out; eventually, sit and keep writing, feel the ink smear out of your fountain pen, stain the side of your left hand with blue. Hold up your right hand as if defending the creative fortress of your mind to stave off the kids as they walk up, about to ask their various questions but stopped by the power of the outstretched hand. Feel them turn and walk away. Hear them tell each other, “Mama’s busy,” and go upstairs. Write until your fingers cramp and your upper arm tighten. Write while the words will come, this rare gift that guards itself so greedily. Write until the words suddenly disappear, as fast as they came, as if a mirage to begin with.