My work gives me a lethal flexibility to procrastinate. I can rationalize putting things off in the name of fulfilling some other "obligation." My ever-present "To Do" list only grows longer. Given my inability to set priorities, I convince myself that as long as something gets crossed off, I'm making some sort of "progress." The marginalia that catch my eye, like bright shiny coins along a path, draw me away, and I convince myself that it is part of some process or maybe the raw material for some future project. Sometimes I am even right.
For the past three years, I've been working on a monograph. I've made progress; a little bit here, a little bit there. Chapters, murky at the outset, coalesce and take shape. I've rolled out chunks for scholarly conferences and public lectures. But there are long sections of the narrative, important to the story I'm telling, that sit out on the horizon mocking and unfinished. I know they are important. I resist the inevitable confrontation required to bring them to heel. Their burden is in my head, but I can't lay them down. Like Giles Corey of Salem, I stubbornly resist doing the work. I demand of my internal universe, "more weight!" Of course this sounds more dramatic than it really is; I don't need the Puritan divines to bury me under rocks. I put the pressure on myself.
When I write, I keep certain books close at hand; writers whose work I admire, books on the art of writing. Hemingway, Didion, Morrison, Orwell, and Baldwin. I'm excited to see Amitava Kumar's Everyday I Write the Book coming out today. The excerpt on writerly routines published on Lithub this morning struck a nerve--or was it a swift kick? That's what I'm looking for, a routine. Consistency is not my forte, and mine shift with the project. Truth be told, these blog posts are meant to prod me from my lethargy. My writing, like a flabby muscle, requires this sort of exercise. Sometimes I worry about how many words I have left? But that's just another excuse. I won't find the answer to that question without stringing the words together in the first place.
For the past three years, I've been working on a monograph. I've made progress; a little bit here, a little bit there. Chapters, murky at the outset, coalesce and take shape. I've rolled out chunks for scholarly conferences and public lectures. But there are long sections of the narrative, important to the story I'm telling, that sit out on the horizon mocking and unfinished. I know they are important. I resist the inevitable confrontation required to bring them to heel. Their burden is in my head, but I can't lay them down. Like Giles Corey of Salem, I stubbornly resist doing the work. I demand of my internal universe, "more weight!" Of course this sounds more dramatic than it really is; I don't need the Puritan divines to bury me under rocks. I put the pressure on myself.
When I write, I keep certain books close at hand; writers whose work I admire, books on the art of writing. Hemingway, Didion, Morrison, Orwell, and Baldwin. I'm excited to see Amitava Kumar's Everyday I Write the Book coming out today. The excerpt on writerly routines published on Lithub this morning struck a nerve--or was it a swift kick? That's what I'm looking for, a routine. Consistency is not my forte, and mine shift with the project. Truth be told, these blog posts are meant to prod me from my lethargy. My writing, like a flabby muscle, requires this sort of exercise. Sometimes I worry about how many words I have left? But that's just another excuse. I won't find the answer to that question without stringing the words together in the first place.
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