Dealing with Distractions

Saturday Morning
9:15
“Where are you going, Dad?”
“I need to get some writing done.”
“But we were gonna watch Recess together.”

10:15
“All right guys, I’ve seen this episode before, and I really need to get some writing done.”
“Hey honey, before you start writing, will you throw down the laundry from our bathroom and help me sort it real quick?”

10:35
I sit down to write and suddenly remember I haven’t checked my email or Facebook account in, like, two whole days. Probably should make sure I’m not missing something important. Wonder what Trump’s been up to this week . . .

11:45
“Dad, Mom says it’s time for lunch.”

12:25
“Hey honey, where are you going?”
“Trying to get some writing done.”
“But you’ve been writing all morning.”

Maybe you’ve had conversations like this in your house (or in your head) whenever you think you should get some writing done. Hard juggling all those chainsaws, innit? So many priorities compete for our time, and the parking garages where we all occasionally leave our brains get so cluttered up. Makes it hard to even think sometimes.

Sure, we all sometimes experience that supernova flare-up of a truly great idea, and then we’re just in the ZONE, man: fingers cramping up, back threatening to buckle. We don’t even care. It’s all we can do just to ride the deluge pouring from our neocortices. (Of course that’s the plural of neocortex—go look it up, kids. The innernet don’t lie.) It’s only when our bladders threaten to drown us that we look down and realize we’re two hours and four thousand words into it and, yes, truly, this time we really are on our way to the NY Times Best Sellers list.

The next day we wake up, excited about the prospect of another one/two/three thousand words, only to discover we can’t crank out more than one/two/three hundred because the job, the kids, the spouse, the housework, the laundry, the cell phone, the friends, the internet, the TV, the movie, the library, the bills, the errands, the dishes, and the ten thousand other things competing for our time have robbed us of our goal. We climb into bed feeling drained, unfulfilled—maybe even guilty—because we failed to write anything substantial that day. We vow that tomorrow will be different, so today becomes tomorrow, and tomorrow becomes this weekend, and this weekend becomes someday.

We love writing, don’t we? Of course we do. So why do we give in so often and so easily to the things that keep us from getting our writing done? I’m sure there are many reasons. Let me share two.

WE DON’T FEEL LIKE WE SHOULD WRITE

Given everything we have to do in a given day, we feel—at least on a sub-conscious level—that we simply don’t have time for such “silliness” as story-telling. After all, it’s our day jobs that put food on the table and keeps a roof over our heads. When we’re not working, children need help with homework, spouses need care and attention. Oh yeah, and shouldn’t we be doing something about our own physical and mental health?

All these priorities consume us and it’s easy to give in to that whispering voice at the end of the day. “Stories are for kids,” it tries to tell us, beckoning towards the soft pillows and warm covers. “You’re an adult now. Grow up and be more responsible. Get a good night’s sleep. There’s another crazy day waiting for you tomorrow.”

I’m convinced that, somewhere deep down inside every adult, there’s this little kid that’s kicking and screaming to get out. He’s the little kid we all used to be, and we’ve trapped him underneath the floorboards in an oubliette we call “adulthood”. He’s pulling on his chains, trying to escape so he can get back outside and run around with his friends and play in the sunshine and dream about things that aren’t even possible. At some point we grew up and turned into adults and bought into this notion that “growing up” meant we have to deny that little kid inside us. As adults, we still dream sometimes, if for no other reason than to remember what dreaming used to feel like. We all feel the need to escape. It’s why we’re so easily distracted. Distractions take us away, however briefly, from the mundane adult lives we’re all forced to endure now.

But guess what? Writing stories doesn’t make us any less of an adult. And we shouldn’t have to feel guilty for loosening the chains and helping that kid escape and giving him his voice back. Face it—that punk little kid is never going to shut up and go away! Besides, denying his existence means denying half our own experiences. Chances are good that some of your fondest memories come from your childhood. We should all take some time to sit down and hear what that little kid wants to tell us. He (or she) can help us remember what we were like before we became so worried about all the troubles in our lives. He can teach us how to dream again.

WE DON’T FEEL LIKE WE COULD WRITE

Whether you realize it or not, your life has probably been influenced by at least one book (possibly even a movie adaptation) that changed how you think or feel about life. For me, it was TAI PAN by James Clavell. One Saturday afternoon when I was fifteen, I was helping my grandma clean out her attic when I came across a musty old box sitting in the back corner under the eaves. Inside was TAI PAN, sandwiched between two dozen hardbacks. I finished the book in a couple of weeks and knew when I closed the cover that’s how I wanted to live my life—one giant adventure after another. Did my life really turn out that way? Riiight. . . . Excuse me a minute while I wipe laughter-tears on your shirt sleeve. Don’t worry it’ll dry. Even though I’ve never read TAI PAN a second time, I can still recall the adventures, the politics, and the intrigue that Clavell imprinted on my impressionable young mind. Neural pathways forged decades ago that are never going to fade.

As I sit down in my own writing sessions, I’m constantly comparing my work to James Clavell, Stephen King, Lauren Oliver, Ray Bradbury, Chuck Wendig, Suzanne Collins, <insert your own list of cherished authors here>. Then I go back and review what I’ve vomited out on the pages and think to myself, “This sucks. No one’s ever going to be influenced by this. No one’s even going to read this.”

I accept that statement to be true only so far as I do nothing to try and get better. Would I honestly expect some editor or agent to fall in love with the first draft of my first story? Heck, I don’t even like it! But what about after my sixth revision, or my hundredth story, or my fifth novel. . . ? Maybe.

If we practice writing every day, we’ll get better. If we read a lot of stories, we’ll learn to distinguish the good from the bad from the ugly. As I learn what’s good and what’s bad, I try to incorporate the good stuff into my own stories, and I also try and steer clear of what’s bad and ugly so it doesn’t creep its way into my work. Eventually I find my own voice and my stories become amazing, even if I’m the only one who thinks so. Because first and foremost, the stories have to entertain the writer.

Distractions will bombard us every single day. When we get into a habit of writing for ourselves, writing because it’s healthy for us, writing because we know we’ll get better, writing to give voice to that imaginative little kid who refuses to be silenced—then writing becomes the distraction from all the craziness around us.

Of course, your own personal circumstances will dictate when you can and can’t write. But I guarantee that if you look hard enough you can find at least an hour to write every single day. But you have to approach it seriously. Rid yourself of all the other unnecessary distractions in your life. Focus on just one distraction—writing—for a little while every single day.