Creative Procrastination

Yesterday morning, instead of working on my novel, I pruned the shrubs in front of the house. It was satisfying in a divide-and-conquer sort of way. My husband commented on my unusual industriousness and he apparently meant it as a compliment. Maybe he didn’t realize that I can accomplish a great deal in the service of not-writing.

Ordinarily procrastination is not one of my vices. When I have papers to grade, I read them promptly. When spring comes and taxes loom, I get them done well before April 15th. I like to get tasks taken care of, out of the way. I like the freedom of feeling unburdened time lying ahead of me.

Except when it comes to writing.

When I’ve cleared an entire day to work on my novel, I become the queen of procrastination. I read the newspaper, even the sports pages; I scrub the kitchen sink and sweep the floor; I check my email and my facebook page. I make appointments and return phone calls. Sometimes I do a little more research, just to “get in the mood.” There are days when I don’t start actually writing until mid-afternoon.

Professional writers are supposed to be disciplined. It doesn’t matter whether they feel inspired; they write every day. At the same time every day. That’s supposed to make the writing easier, and keep the writer from getting rusty.

I am disciplined. I make time to write every day, except Sundays. But the unfortunate truth is that it doesn’t get easier. If anything, it gets harder. Each day I feel as if I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, trying to screw up the courage to jump into the ocean. And though I’ve done it thousands of times, I’m afraid that, this time, I might drown.

I’ve thought about this a lot. Why is writing so difficult? Is it the critical demon that sits on my shoulder and tells me my work will never be “good enough?” Is it because I’m basically lazy? Is it because there’s something fundamentally terrifying about putting words on a page? (Many of my students seem to think so.) Is it because I can’t evaluate the value of what I’ve written until long after the fact?

I suspect the creative task is more demanding than others partly because it makes me feel vulnerable. It requires me to expose myself in ways that make me uncomfortable. It’s just one step away from exhibitionism.

I think writing also forces me to see – in black and white – my own limitations. The dream of the novel – the novel I want to write – is never matched by the novel that comes into being as I pile up actual words and paragraphs and pages. The realization of how far it falls short is often discouraging. Sometimes so discouraging that it cripples the impulse to write.

I’ve sometimes suspected that this is very much the way God feels about humanity – that creation has fallen far short of what might have been. But God apparently hasn’t given up on us yet. So maybe God’s patience could be a model for my own.

Each morning is the beginning of a new day. Another chance to write, to try to move my novel on paper closer to the novel in my imagination. And so this morning I’m sitting at my desk instead of taking my clippers out into the overgrown back yard or scrubbing the bathtub tiles.

Wish me luck.

Ticked Off on Cape Cod

The black and white sign at the beginning of the trail was easy to overlook, except for its blood red triangle. I stopped long enough to see the word TICKS and noticed the insect graphics, but I didn’t bother to read the three or four paragraphs – the font was small and I was eager to get walking.

The trail itself was wide and well-maintained. It was easy to avoid the thick plots of poison ivy and I didn’t brush against the marsh grass, or wander off the path into the woods. The sun was shining and the cool air was invigorating. I walked beside a kettle pond and through a tidal marsh over a wooden bridge. I passed white cedars and black oaks, decaying fences and apple trees, relics of a long-abandoned orchard. I learned that the area had once been farmland where marsh grass was harvested and transported in wide wooden boats.

There were few other people on the trail – an elderly man walked an overweight Boston terrier on a leash. A young couple in shorts power-walked side by side. A tall middle-aged woman in jeans and a cranberry-colored sweatshirt approached me going the other way. As she passed, she warned me to be on the lookout for ticks. I nodded cheerfully – I had seen the sign and was being careful to stay on the path. Besides, I couldn’t fathom how I would be able to see any ticks – they’re tiny and they certainly don’t visibly leap onto your clothes.

Not that I take such warnings lightly. Deer ticks are responsible for the spread of Lyme disease, which is most prevalent in the northeastern United States. I know a young woman who has Lyme disease – she’s had several heart attacks and has spent too much of her young life being rushed to emergency rooms.

The tide was in and filled the tiny inlets and canals. Clumps of knotted wrack swayed just under the surface. The air smelled of salt. I watched a pair of Canada geese swim the length of an inlet. I turned around before the trail entered the woods and retraced my steps, noting how landmarks I had noted on the way appeared so different from the new angle.

It wasn’t until that evening, back in the hotel room, that my back began to itch. I reached to scratch it and scraped away something very small – a bit of sand perhaps? When I looked, a tick was crawling on my finger. A deer tick. I’d seen deer ticks before, some no bigger than a pencil dot. I knew I’d better check myself and my clothes thoroughly. A half-hour’s rigorous search turned up eight more ticks on the inside of my shirt and jeans. Fortunately, none had yet attached themselves to me.

The next morning I invested in some DEET and when I went hiking later that day I not only sprayed my clothes but followed the tick-avoidance precautions to the letter, even tucking my jean cuffs into my socks. I felt paranoid and freakish compared to the other, more smartly-dressed, hikers I met. But I remained tick free, and that was a blessing I was no longer going to take for granted.