Enoughness

A large block of time appears in the schedule. Maybe it's a one-time thing, or maybe this block of time has become yours on a regular basis. Whichever it is, you've got big plans for this time. It will be Productive. There will be Something to Show for it. Huge Chunks of Writing will be the end result.

But then you really start to think about this large block of time, and you remember all the other large blocks of time you've squandered in the past. You think about how you haven't gotten particularly far in your current story. And how you haven't actually finished anything in years. And how you've passed the 40 year mark and you've nothing artistic in your life that you can proudly point to.

Now you start to feel really scared. Scared that maybe you're not supposed to be a writer. You remember that psychic you went to nineteen years ago--the one who was positive that you were meant to be a nurse and seemed completely surprised when you admitted to having creative writing hankerings. Maybe he wasn't a charlatan after all. Maybe you're suffering from delusions. Maybe what you've feared all along, what you've feared others thought of you all along, is true: you are a useless failure.

The clock begins to tick louder--marking the passing of your block of time, marking the passing of your life. You know you want to do something with yourself, make something of yourself. You know you need to start writing. Right Now. Write Right Now.

You sit at the desk, in front of the pen and pads of paper. They seem to whisper at you, accuse you. But you try to block that out, and instead, you think about the story you're working on. You get a glimmering of an idea, something that maybe you can run with. But then it's drowned out by the whispering desk, the whispering pads of blank paper, the whispering of the mean words in your head. You are not a writer. You are not a writer.

It's too painful. You can't take it anymore. You get up from the desk. You leave the room. You find some way to numb yourself, maybe tv, maybe food, maybe somebody else's story.

Or...

Or you can take to heart what you have learned during the writing retreat. You can remember Jennifer Louden's Conditions of Enoughness.  You can choose a time frame (a day, a week, a month) and then decide the minimum that you can accomplish in that time. When you've come up with a list, you can study it and pare it down. Then you can look at the new list, and pare it down even more. Writing three hours a day, six days a week, gets whittled down to forty-five minutes, twice a week. Four blog entries in one week becomes a single entry. You just keep at it, keep lowering the bar until the list becomes truly manageable, until it becomes something that you absolutely easy-peasy know that you can do. Then you do what you promised yourself you would do--no more, no less.

And then?

Then, most important of all, you declare yourself satisfied (even if you don't particularly feel satisfied). And you walk away from the day's work.

I am satisfied.

 

Comments

[Hay]

I went to a psychic when I was very young, with my mum. She said I'd never have any success in my youth. Funny how somehow I still believe that, it's strange.

[The Other Laura]

Yes! Yes! This is wonderful, Karen and so so true...

[lucy]

Perfect satisfaction. Yes! Who says you can't get no satisfaction?

[kara]

I raised my hands up over my head upon reading this and declared Yes! You got the board - and I see a little angel under it - you know what she's whispering to you ----yes, yes, yes in quiet little soothing hush tones especially for you the writer.
I love the way you have a spot for keeping track each week. That gives me an idea for my own life.....
Nathan's writing on the board just warms my heart up because you are making space for being a writer and a mom. One does not have to be exclusive from the other and dang the whole thing just makes me say "yes"