I don't mind all the driving. In fact, I've always enjoyed driving. One of my favorite activities during my army days was driving trucks, sometimes with trailers, under difficult conditions. I feel (and others have commented) that I handle a "deuce-n-a-half" in the field, the way other people handle a sports car on a slalom. A "deuce" is a 2.5-ton army truck, for those who don't know, which means it can carry 5 tons of load when driving on standard paved roads, or half that load when driving cross-country. And, a "deuce" excels at running cross-country.
In fact, you can even plow down small trees with one if you have to.
I know; I have. When I had to.
No, all that driving hasn't bothered me. And neither has the extra time spent with individual members of my family. Driving my wife, or one of the kids to or from work is one of the few times I get the chance to speak with them alone, without others wanting my attention. And that's nice. It provides an opportunity to discuss personal things, to engage in conversations that might otherwise be difficult to hold. And, my son's girlfriend sometimes tags along, and she's an English major studying creative writing at Arizona State, so we have fun conversations about writing.
All this mish-mash of schedules has me considering a very special problem. One that's all my own.
The Fragility of Writing
I don't know if you have this problem. I'm sure that some writers don't suffer from it, while others probably do. I envy the former, and commiserate with the latter, because I find writing a very fragile thing.
Seems to me, there are different types of fragility, of course, just as there are different ways of interpreting the word 'fragile.'
My father-in-law, for instance, a retired postal worker, has been known to comment: "Ah! There it is again, that word fruh-gee-lee. I think that's an Italian word, means: Throw this hard at the wall and see if it sticks!"
I did mention that he's a retired postal worker, right?
While I don't know if it's true, I've heard that diamonds are difficult to scratch, but can shatter quite easily if smashed by a heavy solid object. Something to do with their structure, evidently.
Other materials, such as steel, may have great tensile strength (essentially meaning they're hard to bend), but relatively poor compression strength (not standing up so well when smooshed).
For me, story writing has a very special sense of fragility.
Whenever I read about a writer who works as a successful lawyer or doctor, is deeply involved in raising ten kids, plays semi-pro volleyball or something as a hobby--yet, has still managed to publish six thousand books and two gazillion short stories in multiple genres--I figure the following:
(A) This is someone with excellent time-management skills.
(B) This is not someone who finds story writing as fragile as I do.
I believe I've mentioned before, on this blog, that if I had my wish, I'd write behind locked doors with red and green lights above them.
I'd control which light was on with a switch: green if I'm not busy, red if I'm writing and need to be left alone. Maybe I'd add an amber light for when I'm ruminating, casting around for a good idea or something that catches my fancy, ready to hit the red light when something gelled. I'd stay locked-up with that red light on for as long as it took to complete a single work -- days, weeks, even months -- ordering out for food, cigars, soda, etc., and only coming up for air when the job was finished.
This isn't because I detest my fellow man, or don't like spending time with my family. It's because one of the ways I find writing most fragile is through what I call "break in contact." I might be chugging along, writing great stuff, knowing just where the train is headed--and if I'm left alone, I'll get there--but, if my work is interrupted, that break in contact, a time when I'm not engaged with the story, causes problems.
When I sit down to start back in, I often find I've forgotten key transitions that I'd already worked-out in my mind, as well as phrases that seemed perfect for upcoming spots. Sometimes simply a key word goes AWOL in my absence, evading all my attempts to recall and employ it after my return, occasionally never resurfacing. (This is most galling when I only recall the word while reading the final copy of the story, once it's been printed in a magazine, and I find myself lamenting: "Arg! That other word would have been so much better there!")
I've tried writing notes to myself, or even outlines, so that I'll remember this stuff when I get back to my desk. But I find this brings me up against another aspect of writing's fragile nature.
I once knew a writer who warned me not to ever "talk out" a story. She claimed that if I got a story
|© Marie-Lan Nguyen / Wikimedia Commons /|
I've found that if I outline a story, every important transition or phrase that I jot down opens a little stop-cock, letting off some of the pressure in my head. It doesn't take many open stop-cocks -- particularly if they're open for awhile -- to make me lose what I need. It's as if the motive force, driving my writing, just evaporates.
This is one reason why I often write late at night, or in the dark hours of the morning. No one is around to interrupt me after they've all gone to bed, and -- after sometimes driving my daughter to work at 3:45 a.m. (she has to be there at 4:00), I have a couple hours to write before folks start getting up.
Except for our cats, of course, who -- for some reason -- seem to insist on being fed! Then they want to come out on the balcony with me, so they can hang out on the window ledges and watch birds flit through the trees. I try not to let this bother me.
I'm interested in hearing if any of you find your writing work to be somewhat fragile in nature, and what you do to address this problem.
See you in two weeks!