The general consensus seems to be that most writers are neurotic, obsessive, eccentric, enter awkward psychological label here. I count myself among these emotionally afflicted agents of creation, but by no means speak for the institution as a whole. You might be a well-balanced human being, normal in every respect but for an overactive imagination; and if that be the case, this might not be your cup of tea. If, however, you sometimes find yourself plagued by depression for no reason, filled with the need to tear down those around you, to blame and point fingers in an effort to explain your lack of inspiration, or constantly delay, delay, delay, talking about the ever-ongoing ideas in your brain, while never actually sitting down to flush them out ... then drink up, friend.
But I warn you: it has some kick.
The Emmy-winning David Milch (creator of NYPD Blue, Deadwood, and Luck) explains it thus: "Creatures absent of action are despondent." What this means for writers, is that when we're removed from our craft (aka Life Purpose), it's easy to drift into remorse. Usually our thoughts sound something like: I should be writing, or that would be a great idea, or if only I didn't have to be here right now. The result is unhappiness, frustration, and relationships that are left to struggle for breath while we tread the gray waters of our mind, wishing to be elsewhere, alone, submerged in creation. At least, it was that way for me.
Then I made a discovery that revolutionized my artistic well-being: Habituation.
It's pretty simple. Every experience we subject ourselves to is remembered in our nervous system, which we can imagine as a vast bio-chemical GPS that saves every destination we ever visit. When we climb a ladder, a path is carved through our nervous system to transmit the information. And for the rest of our lives, every ladder we climb will use that same neural pathway to assist our assent. When we tie our shoes, an independent path is accessed. When we start the car, a different independent path is accessed. On and on and on.
Now, when it comes to writing, as magical and earth-shattering as the written word might seem to those who practice it, the same simple rules apply. Showing up, punching the time card, and making sure you spend time staring down the monotonous blink of your cursor is paramount if you intend to carve a neural pathway that will eventually result in habituation.
At first, like anything else, it will be work. You might be lucky to squeeze out 300 words. But with persistence, and elbow-grease, the time will come when it flows as easily as water from a faucet. They are are old pipes, mind you, and you might hear the deep, brassy moan of pressurizing valves before the magic starts to flow in earnest. You might even cover your hands in gouts of brown sewer water. But in time, my children ... in time the words will come.
Start with thirty minutes a day. I find it helpful to write in the morning, when my mind is fresh and unburdened by the day's ration of conflict, but something different might work better for you. Between owning my own business, working an additional 10-6 day job, playing in a band, nurturing a serious relationship, a social life, a dog, and chasing a career as a novelist, I take the time when I can get it. But I usually maintain a 7,000-10,000 word per week quota.
How, you ask?
Two tricks. The first I have already mentioned: just show up.
The second takes a little more practice.
To balance Milch's earlier statement ("Creatures absent of action are despondent.") with a solution to the issue, we must train our mind to leave the craft of writing at the desk. You've heard the saying, "Don't bring your work home with you," so why would you bring your need to create into every other avenue of your life? How will you ever enjoy a movie, or a walk on the beach, or a quiet afternoon with someone you love. Trust me, I've broken hearts with my laptop (including my own). We must learn to lull the beast to sleep. And everyone knows that sleep comes easier on a full stomach. The answer is self-evident. Feed your monsters ... lest they break free from their cages and make meals of their master.
Lets start at 300 words a day. That's 30 minutes in front of the notebook, typewriter, or computer, 10 words per minute, roughly 2000 words a week. Call it a beginners quota. It's not as hard as you might think, and besides, thinking is the problem. Do you hear me? STOP THINKING. Don't pump yourself up, or try to plot out what you're going to write when you sit down. Not at first. Just show up, turn on the goddamn screen, and start pecking keys.
Before you know it, you'll be a writer that actually writes.
And maybe you won't be so grumpy.
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