In The Clearing Stands A Writer?

Since waking, I've been at work in wondrous ways that nonetheless seem to bring me no closer to cleaning my desk. I'm sipping a drink (seltzer, gin, and the juice of one orange) and banging away at the typewriter creating even more paper. I had hoped to clear things away.

I read a friend's fourteen pages, wrote a note to her, then wrote about all of that and was able to recycle all those pages. I read and tweeted about a tremendous New York Times piece recommending spider webs then recycled those three pages. I typed a letter to a friend and recycled several pages and envelopes he had sent. I typed that letter on the backs of an article I wanted to send him, thus relieving the desk of two more sheets. I sorted all the mail into the bin and the bill holder.

At this point I expected to feel as though I had gotten somewhere but the desk seemed about as swamped as before. I still have the print of a Dani Shapiro article here. I've read the piece but feel like there's something to write about it. And the clock needs a battery. I take the dead battery to the basement, add it to the recycling, grab a fresh battery, notice the laundry basket, find the clothes still damp, clear the lint trap, and start the dryer again. Upstairs I install the battery and set the clock realizing how long I've been distracted. My desk is still a mess.

There are three sticky notes on my paper planner. The first is a quote about meditation. I used half the quote in my newsletter but the other half feels useful too. I shake my head and drop the note in the bin. The second note, about the business of writing, something I need to learn, has been stuck to the planner for three weeks. It mocks me. The last is an idea for a blog post or a book chapter. I should make time to write that but first the desk.

I'm far enough into this piece and into clearing my desk to wonder if there's any point to either of them. I'm suspicious of lessons learned but sure of the virtues of a clear desk. I feel very far from any kind of wisdom.

After that paragraph I shelved three books that had been behind the typewriter. A fourth book caught my attention and I started the introduction before remembering the two books I'm already reading. A third will grind everything to a halt. I've started a to-read list. It's eight books long and I wonder if it was better to forget books I wanted to read. I rarely ran out of reading material and the list already weighs on my mind.

I'm not going to clear the desk. I'll admit to that. Father forgive me for I have sinned. As soon as I clear it I'll find more paper to save if only for a while. These are ideas. These are possibilities. I'm not ready to let them go just yet nor am I able to attend to all of them. Days like today I pick and choose.

There's a quote from that Dani Shapiro article:

Had Jane Kenyon (or Virginia Woolf for that matter) lived long enough to be told to build a Twitter platform, she might have resisted. She might — as many of us do — have found ways to build a fortress around herself, a cathedral of peace and silence. She would have emerged from that cathedral...only in her own time, and at her own bidding.

I've been at this work for six hours. The desk is still cluttered with paper, pens, a typewriter. The shelf next to it is a mess of paper, books, my planner, and a folder I hoped would organize things. It turns out I've built a fortress of paper that is not a cathedral of peace but might be a temple of ideas. I rise from the chair and genuflect to the desk onto which I will now add this sheet, one more piece of paper that might be a leaf from the tree of wisdom. "Isn't it pretty to think so?"

Roots Of Procrastination

Leo Babauta's recent piece Four Antidotes To Procrastination caught my eye but, oh the irony, I put off reading it. Having read it now, I like how he admits to "procrastinating a bit more than normal, and of course it doesn't feel great." He gives good reasons why he procrastinates: fatigue, overload, uncertainty. He wants "an antidote (or two) to our procrastination, because it usually means we're not doing the meaningful work we want to do in the world. It's worth figuring out." 

In the margin, I wrote "procrastination is a sign of unhappiness. I want to investigate it so as to address what is really wrong." Babauta's piece suggests solutions to procrastination, but I'm pulled to try understanding the underlying problem of which procrastination is merely a symptom. 

Last week I very little good writing. I watched a lot of television and felt myself slipping toward depression. I wanted to work on my daily blog posts and a big writing project to which I've recently returned, but instead flipped channels, scrolled through social media, and skimmed the news. I procrastinated going to my desk to write, but procrastination, while a problem, wasn't the root problem keeping me from "doing the meaningful work." It was a symptom of something deeper. 

My issues began with getting too little sleep. I get up mornings at 4:45 but was up after ten most nights. Some people can get by on that little sleep, but not me. Lacking sleep I begin thinking of whole lists of things I have to do and spiral into anxiety. I procrastinate because I feel  I can't do the things I want to do. And all of that stems from feeling unworthy, my fundamental issue. 

Dealing with that feeling of unworthiness seems impossible, so I end up in front of television, phone, or computer. But when the wind changes, I do a few things that make a difference: I get rest, stop making lists, do one small thing, clear space, and remember the difference between work and a job. 

Rest comes first. I'm tired and wanted to go for a run, but my job drained me and it's about all I can do to sit here and type this. I'll be in bed reading by eight and asleep before nine. I'll be more ready to go tomorrow. 

Ditching the list is good. I worry that I'll forget something, but if it's important, it will get done. There are always a couple dozen things that feel like priorities, but I can do only one and I do better without the anxiety the list gives me. I'm typing this and that's enough. I don't know what's next. That can wait. Right now there's just this one thing. 

Clearing space on the desk mirrors clearing it in my mind. Imagine a desk covered with laptop, three folders, two stapled articles, a dozen pages of notes and writings, a letter from a friend, an empty coffee cup, the stapler, two library books, phone, wallet, keys, a pen, and a writer's notebook. On the shelf next are the contents of a couple more folders, some bills, and more books. That's my brain sometimes and it leaves me anxious and distracted. Clearing means picking something up and finding the right place for it until I have just the tools for one job: a notebook, laptop, and one article while in my head there is just one task on which to focus. Distractions creep in, but I'm getting better at gently clearing them away. The clear desk and mind help settle and center me. 

Then it's a matter of differentiating between work and a job. Work is choice, jobs are obligations, but it's mostly up to how I choose to approach the task. If I'm doing it because I ought to, it's a job and I'm likely to procrastinate. If I choose to do it as work, even scooping the cat litter can be rewarding and worthy of my focus though I'm not sure I can explain how. It's easier to see it with choosing to write this. There's no money or fame in it, but it's good work. My job tired me terribly today. This work is energizing. 

Procrastination isn't the enemy. Procrastination is a symptom of me fighting something, most likely the feeling I'm unworthy. Right now I'm not sure I'm worthy of publishing this. Who am I to say much of anything? Well, if nothing else, I'm someone with a clear mind (and desk) and a focus on understanding that procrastination comes from a deeper place. That might be worth sharing. 

Now, I'm ready to clear the desk and my mind of this and find more work I want to be doing. There's always the cat litter.