“There is always more.” That was the conceit of last week’s blog post, and it does double duty for this one. Last week, I talked about how the fact that there is always more—to write, to outline, to research, to whatever—can be maddening, and that it’s important (and difficult) to determine when you’ve done enough; the point at which you can pat yourself on the back for a job well done and stop for the day with satisfaction, not defeat.
But “more” doesn’t just lurk in the empty space of blank pages. “More” is insidious, and it’s just as likely to stop you from ever starting your work as it is to convince you that the work you do is never enough. Just as there is always more to write, there is always more to do before writing. Read any article on procrastination, and it will start with some iteration of the following: “I’m writing this at the last minute, but my apartment is clean!” It’s the same oft-trotted-out joke of students during exam week, writers approaching a due date, and anyone else trying to do anything under a tight deadline—all of our apartments are clean as a whistle.
But just cleaning the apartment is the work of amateurs. Those of us with real skill can pack our lunch for the week, do laundry, water the plants, respond to those emails we’ve been meaning to respond to, and even get our plans in order for the weekend. Really, the list of things we can do before we sit down to work is never-ending; there is always, always more.
And this “more,” the more that lies at the beginning rather than the end—or more accurately, that lies before the beginning—has been tripping me up for months now. I am always trying to clear the deck before I sit down to write. That way I have a clear head, and no interruptions awaiting me. All of my responsibilities to others are taken care of, so now I can write. But I never seem to get to the writing. You may be shocked to learn this (I know I was), but apparently, it’s not easy to tie up every aspect of your life in a neat little bow and sit down at your computer with absolutely nothing in the world you need to do but write.
The trap I’ve been falling for is the temptation of productive procrastination. All of these things I’m doing—cooking, cleaning, corresponding—they’re all important. Doing them brings me a sense of accomplishment. This isn’t watching TV, or reading Twitter; I’m not wasting time. Or at least, this is what I keep telling myself.
Abandoning the exercise metaphors for the week, allow me instead to offer a comic book story. The popular X-Man Wolverine (played in the films by Hugh Jackman) has a heightened sense of smell that helps make him an excellent tracker. There is another, lesser known X-Man named Fantomex who was created to be the perfect weapon, which includes the ability to avoid detection. As such, he emits no scent, and has invisibility-inducing technology to boot. So he is incredibly surprised when Wolverine manages to find him sneaking into the X-Men’s headquarters one day. When he questions Wolverine about it, Wolverine responds by telling Fantomex (and I’m paraphrasing), “There was a big you-shaped hole of nothing.”
From Uncanny X-Men #520 by Matt Fraction and Greg Land
As I’ve gotten better at exercising, preparing food, and keeping the apartment clean, I’ve missed something—the big writing-shaped hole in nearly every day. I may not be wasting as much time as I used to, but I’m still not doing what I need to do. I’ve hidden behind productive procrastination because I’m still scared of sitting down to write.
Joss Whedon told a story in an interview about his office. He talked about how it was so overrun with clutter that there was barely a path leading from the door to his desk. One day, to surprise him, his wife and his housekeeper teamed up to clean and organize his office. When he came back from working in the now-clean office, his wife asked him what he thought of what they had done. To their surprise, he hadn’t even noticed. (You can hear him tell the story here at the 1:13:00 mark.)
Writers don’t have clean offices. They have books, scripts, articles—they have finished work.
They know when to say, “That’s enough; it’s time to write.”