JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Everyone this week has been talking about the many jobs that come along with the title "author;" researching, editing, promotion - even teaching others (which is always also about teaching ourselves as well.) Sometimes, one of the jobs that comes along with being an author is "relearning the habit of but in chair, hands on keyboard."
As some of you may remember, my Word for the Year is DEEP WORK, because I'm devoting myself to retraining my oh-so-distractable brain to do the sort of demanding creative work I used to do without really thinking about it. I've gotten a lot of help from our own Celia Wakefield, who has worked miracles with my ability to self-organize, and I've also greatly benefited from my friend Jessica Ellicott, who really, really needs to teach a course about her "so stress free even I can do it" outlining technique and who has encouraged me to try different mind hacks for keeping myself on track and writing.
The ability to be creative is not, perhaps, a muscle, but the ability to sit in the damn chair and not get up until you've written your words for the day most certainly is. Yes, I've had good reasons to let my writing muscles get flabby over the past four or five years, but you know, none of those hold true anymore. The Maine Millennial has moved out with her dog and cat, the Sailor is safe at home in Virginia with his sweetheart, and Youngest is a college grad who is 100% self-supporting. It is past time for me to get cracking.
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| Photo by Brooke Staton, @mainememoriesphoto |
So recently, I've tried two things that has led to great results. The first it scheduling my writing time. I know, I know, can you believe I didn't before? Now I have it set up, complete with notifications and a program that puts my phone on Do Not Distract automatically.
The second - and this surprised me - is sprinting. From my college days, I've always been the sort of person who writes fast and well when under a deadline. The problem for me is the end-of-the-book deadline is WAY too far away, and frankly, is more of a suggestion in my case. My poor beleaguered publisher gave up keeping me on deadline about a decade ago. Even scheduling a perfectly normal three hour writing session allows me to kind of.. drift. Maybe I have time for a load of laundry?
But if the timer's on for an hour and a half, I've discovered I write. Fast. No time to linger over every word as is my tendency. No time to think and rethink every choice. Get it down, because the clock is ticking. And really, I start each day's writing with a quick pass-through of yesterday's words, so I can fix the most egregious errors then.
Is it working? Reader, it is, as you can see from this excerpt from AT MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY.
“Oh, my God.” Tiny raced to the window. “Oh.” She sounded as if she had just finished a five hundred meter sprint. “It's okay. It's a friend of Cal's.”
Clare joined her at the window. A fully tricked out pick up pulled sung against the downstairs. They watched as a beefy guy climbed out, ran his hand over his stubbled hair, and stared at Clare's car. He walked toward the downstairs, disappearing from view beneath the deck.
“Is he coming in?”
Tiny shook her head. “You can't get from one floor to another inside. You have to go around and through the outside door. We use it like a garage – it's got Cal's workroom and the chest freezer down there. It's not even heated.”
The man reemerged carrying a couple of small duffle bags. He slung them into his truck cab and then headed for the railroad tie stairs.
“Oh, crap.” Tiny set Rose back into her playpen.
“Should I, um, leave?”
“I don't know what he wants. Maybe he needs to use the bathroom.” Tiny opened the door and stepped onto the deck. Clare slung her diaper bag over her shoulder and followed, her hand tight on the baby carrier. “Hey, Dillon.” Tiny passed her hand through the air. “Cal's not here.”
“I can see that.” Dillon had the look of a high school linebacker running to fat, his neck overflowing his chamois shirt collar, his gut straining against the buttons. He wore a pair of wraparound sun glasses that made him look like an out-of-shape version of Robocop. “Who's this?”
Clare and Tiny looked at each other. “It's, uh, Clare?”
Clare held up the carrier. “We're having a Mommy-baby date.” She used her brightest, most brainless voice. “Rose and Ethan are both eight months old. And they're both our firsts. It's really nice to compare notes with another mom, isn't it, Tiny?”
Tiny nodded emphatically. The big guy looked back toward where he'd parked his truck. “Does Cal know you invited somebody out here?”
As subdued by her husband as she was, even Tiny bristled at that. “No, but he will when he gets home, and I honestly don't see as it's any of your business, Dillon.”
Clare did her best giggle. “I can't imagine he pays that much attention to scheduling play dates.”
He held up his hands. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I just, uh...” he focuses on Clare's parka. “You look like you're ready to leave.”
Clare glanced at Tiny. “I was about to, yes.”
“Well, you should go out first.”
“Why?”
“Uh...”
Clare wondered if she was the first person to ever question Dillon, or just the first woman. She glanced back to Tiny, and saw she was looking as stressed as she had been when Clare first arrived. “Never mind.” She hugged the other woman tight. “I hope we can do this again soon.”
Julia: Dear readers, what are your mind hacks for getting stuff done? And have you been successful in revamping old habits into new ones?
