Adventures In Wortcunning: A Writer’s Rendezvous

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in…

The song lyrics to Pearl Jam’s “Machine Head” are invading my thoughts with an earworm planted by the radio yesterday. The thought is a good one, if I could turn down the tempo a bit. It’s time to get to work.

My keyboard needs new batteries and the minutes of the day tick by. A gazillion things to do and I must

Breathe out, breathe in. Breathe out, breathe in. Breathe out…

Work calls… three emails, and a few text messages later I am back at the keyboard, pretending it is an old typewriter. That I have a cigarette in my hand and what remains of a shot of whisky at my elbow. Since it is all imaginary, there’s no harm in downing that one and pouring a fresh jigger. Ahhhh!

This is what I do when it is time to compose, I try to channel Hemingway. Write drunk, edit hungover. My cluttered desk, complete with a scanner, monitor, mouse, keyboard, coffee mug and a thousand very important tiny bits of paper all disappear within my holographic imaginings.

Photograph courtesy of Anne Duthers; Hat courtesy of her father-in-law.

I sit now, in a wooden desk chair with arms. An old green “Quiet Riter” typewriter sits upon the wooden desk before me. The desk drawer is open beside me with a fresh stack of paper, waiting. A small waste can, the circular file, sits waiting, patiently for my next frustrated toss of another crumpled page. I can smell the paper, and the carbon behind it – because, why not keep a copy for myself? Now, that’s old school.

I hear the clack of the keys as they strike the paper and the rubber barrel behind it. Smells of mechanical oil and ribbon ink combine with the whisky and, coffee?! Someone brought me a fresh cup of coffee… now, I know it’s love.

The veil of my imaginings is very thin indeed. The dog barks, the phone rings, someone comes home – arrrrgh!

Where was I?

I suppose I could be cranky about the interruptions, and contrary to my housemates’ reassurances, it does slip out at times. But mostly, I try to remember that these are the people and work that I love and everything I do is geared and arranged so that I can enjoy them in candid moments. Like this one. sigh

You might think this is the fine, vintage whine of affluenza. I will defend the sentiment with 30+ years of experience, as soon as I get back from moving the laundry into the dryer and into the washer and folding a couple more loads. Gotta keep the wheels moving. Did you know I began my writing career on a “word processor” with 3¼ inch floppy storage? Yes, I am that old, and still no book.

What happened in three decades to make me feel this way? Children, work, time with family, time with friends, these are all important and much more comfortable when enjoyed from a stable home base. Food on the table, roof over the head – that stuff – must all be in place before the rest of life can happen.

And then, there is the writer’s axiom – to write what you know about. Figured it would be better to live a varied experience first and spend time reminiscing later. Just hope I make it to “later” as I watch the hours and days march by.

There are times that I think the only way for me to write The Great American Novel, or anything else, would be to get up at 3:30 every morning and compose for a few hours before each day begins. This thought first occurs to the little martyr in me.

My logical self has been sitting in the corner examining this problem for a long, long time. When the idea of an early hours’ rendezvous with my keyboard arrived, despite the messenger, it seems like a viable plan. I am often awake at this hour anyway. And it may be possible to sleep in (a bit) with the household and work schedule the way it is. Hmmm.

Setting an alarm clock would never work. I suspect I might become petulant with the clockwork turnings, and besides, would not wish to disturb my partner or the rest of the household. But if I just happen to get up and am wakeful… well, at least this would give my sleepy head something quiet to do.

Alright, I say to myself. I will call it a plan then. It is the bare notion of a hope, yet it exists. Yes, hope. It might have started with a pout, but why hang on to that feeling when it might be a great idea after all? Now, I must alert the household that I am not available in the tiny hours of the morning – but I will not wake them up to do it.

Shhh, put your slippers and the kettle on. It is 3:30 in the morning and time to write – now!