coulda, shoulda, woulda

I wouldn't last long in the military. You know why? Because I'm stupid, that's why. Most recruits in the armed forces have this thing called routine. There are certain tasks they're expected to accomplish each day. To help them accomplish them, they have a drill sergeant. But perhaps more importantly, they have another really neat thing called work ethic. (It might also be construed as fear of the drill sergeant's can of whoop-ass, but let's stick with the perfect world, shall we?) They have to want to get their assigned tasks done. They have to want to be at boot camp. They have to want to sculpt perfect hospital corners whenever they make their beds, finish their morning run in good time, score high during marksmanship trials and so forth. By adhering to that work ethic and by steadily completing their routine every day for weeks, recruits get an idea of what's expected of them, what they're supposed to be doing, and how things are supposed to go. They know what to do, how to do it, when to do it, and what the benefits are to doing it (not being appointed a permanent latrine orderly, for example). Me? Not a chance. I just sort of caper along through life, visions of dancing daisies in my head, whistling a happy tune until I run smack into a brick wall or fall down a manhole. Very, very rarely will I actually stop in my tracks, straighten up, scratch my head and yell, "Hey! I should be doing THIS!" That happened to me this morning. It was eleven o'clock. I had woken up at 9:30, rolled out of bed, eaten a heaping bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats, dragged a brush through my hair, and had been reading other people's blogs all morning in my pajamas. After a while, I finally got off my duff and into the shower. As I was bending down to pick up the bath rug and hang it over the edge of the tub, I suddenly thought, "HEY! Instead of loafing around the house all day, blogging, studying bartending flashcards, lackadaisically searching for a job, reading The Epic of Gilgamesh or playing video games, I could be starting in on my second novel!" (Well, something like that, anyway.) Immediately following, an enormous rush of childish glee ran through my body. It was as if Christmas was suddenly the day after tomorrow, or I'd suddenly won an all-expenses-paid trip to Las Vegas, effective immediately. It was the old, intoxicating feeling of anticipation and excitement. It was the writing fever. And it was back. It had fallen by the wayside in the wake of my first novel, replaced by the revision blues. I don't know about you, but I've never really liked editing and revising and proofing. Anyone who's ever spotted a typo in my blog posts will realize that. Typos are anathema to me. I'm a good speller. I'm something of a wordsmith, in fact. But I do make mistakes. And what's worse, I can't always be bothered to find them and fix them. I'm working on that, but it's a hard slog. But never mind about that. The point is that there's always something more I could be doing. And very rarely do I realize it. I get complacent too easily. I fall into a rut, stagnate, and just sort of stew for a while. Often it takes some calamity to make me notice how much I've slacked off. I mean, come on. I love writing. I'm drunk on this story I'm creating. Writers understand how much of a trip, a joy, a high, a tremendous kick in the pants writing is. It's like a drug, an illicit love affair (as Laura said). I can't understand why I would hesitate to dive back in. I'm not daunted by the task. I actually have a much clearer idea of the plot of this second book than I did for the first. Even now, as I contemplate the prospect of writing the next chapter in the series, my pulse quickens and my eyes gleam. I just got complacent. Lazy. Indolent. Mush-brained. The only thing I have on the docket for today is studying, studying. I have one final time-trial to pass at bartender's school, sours and blended drinks. (While we're on the subject of dithering, I could've been finished with bartender's school a lot sooner, too.) The newly-completed flashcards are sitting right here next to me on the bedspread. I have merely to roll over, pick them up, and begin the long process of memorizing 40 drinks before tomorrow. But in the meantime, I sat here for an hour and a half in my PJs, wasting precious time on the Internet. Yesterday I made those flashcards, sent an e-mail to my potential employer, and took an introspective walk. That's all I did. I've been dreaming and scheming about this novel series for years, and it was only the act of stooping to pick up a bath rug that made me realize that I'm spinning my wheels. Sometimes I really wish I could reach inside my head and punch my brain. A lot of writers can fall into this trap. Writing is fun, but it's hard work, too. Like an exercise routine, it can sometimes be difficult to start—even to remember to start. Maybe you're busy with other things: children, work, studies, hobbies, friends, obligations. You harangue, you chivvy, you exhort, but you just can't seem to get started. Perhaps you rationalize, and tell yourself that you'll get started first thing tomorrow morning. But tomorrow morning rolls around, and the idea stays in your head and your fingers off the keys. Maybe you throw up straw men, working on lesser projects while the Big Idea simmers on the back burner. That works for a while, but something's gotta give eventually. The best suggestion I've heard for combating the Great First Hurdle of Starting was given me by Stephen King. In his excellent autobiography-slash-writing guide, On Writing, King suggests that you get yourself a routine. Pick an hour in the morning or the evening. Make sure it's the same hour every day: six o'clock, or 7:47, or 11:09, whatever. You must be consistent. Sit down at your computer (or typewriter, if you're the old-fashioned sort) and write. Even if you don't feel like it. Even if your brain tells you that you'll never accomplish anything by forcing yourself to write. Even if the video games and millennia-old epics are calling to you. Just get on with it. Soon, King says, you'll notice that the words are coming easier. That the initial difficulty is slacking off, inspiration is welling up, and you're suddenly in the Writing Zone. It may take five minutes, or it may take five or so sessions. But soon, you'll notice that it becomes easier and easier to get on a roll. The writer's block will start crumbling faster. If you keep up your routine religiously, writing for an hour (or two) every day, same time, same place...good things will start to roll off that keyboard. It may seem counterintuitive, but it works. I myself was highly skeptical when I first read about the method. With my nose in the air and my voice laden with hauteur, I scoffed, "Poppycock! A routine would defile the creative process. Writing on a schedule is like trying to paint a masterpiece every month, or carve sculpture from nine to five. One must wait for the creative juices to flow, and then write." It didn't take me long to realize that if I sat around waiting for the creative juices to flow, I'd be in my 90s before I finished my second book. So I gave King's method a shot. And I noticed that soon, I was checking my watch and thinking excitedly, "Oooh, my writing hour is coming up." In no time at all, the creative juices were flowing, even before I sat down at the computer every night. I know this, and yet I haven't started doing it yet this year. I've set myself some goals for 2010, a battle plan (as delineated by Jon Paul). There remains but to buckle down and do it. Like those damnable New Year's resolutions, I can't seem to muster the diligence nor the intelligence to actually set myself a routine. Maybe I need a drill sergeant.

Help me, R. Lee Ermey. You're my only hope.