What Writers Talk About At Home

Corinne: "What should we eat tonight?"

Me: "I just wrote somebody vomiting in a pool of rotten blood.  Italian?"

The Routines Of Writing

http://dailyroutines.typepad.com/daily_routines/

Nothing has been added on that site in some time, but it's a fascinating collection of work-styles of writers and creative folk generally.  Many descriptions of working habits that underline the logic behind what non-creative people would regard as eccentricity.  I heartily recommend reading it -- then reflecting on your own system for producing work.  It is profitable to the mind.  Example:

Gerhard Richter

He sticks to a strict routine, waking at 6:15 every morning. He makes breakfast for his family, takes Ella to school at 7:20 and is in the studio by 8. At 1 o'clock, he crosses the garden from the studio back to the house. The grass in the garden is uncut. Richter proudly points this out, to show that even it is a matter of his choosing, not by chance. At 1 o'clock, he eats lunch in the dining room, alone. A housekeeper lays out the same meal for him each day: yogurt, tomatoes, bread, olive oil and chamomile tea.

After lunch, Richter returns to his studio to work into the evening. ''I have always been structured,'' he explains. ''What has changed is the proportions. Now it is eight hours of paperwork and one of painting.'' He claims to waste time -- on the house, the garden -- although this is hard to believe. ''I go to the studio every day, but I don't paint every day. I love playing with my architectural models. I love making plans. I could spend my life arranging things. Weeks go by, and I don't paint until finally I can't stand it any longer. I get fed up. I almost don't want to talk about it, because I don't want to become self-conscious about it, but perhaps I create these little crises as a kind of a secret strategy to push myself. It is a danger to wait around for an idea to occur to you. You have to find the idea.'' As he talks, I notice a single drop of paint on the floor beneath one of his abstract pictures, the only thing out of place in the studio.

The New York Times Magazine, January 27, 2002

People love to make fun of the peculiarities of artists generally, but they don't remark on the superstitious rituals of professional athletes, for example, or the demimondaine lives of begged privilege led by politicians.  We get called 'eccentric' or 'weird' because we're at the edges of things, broadening the frontiers of human experience, while professional golfers, elected officials, clergy, banksters, and so forth, who now occupy the territory previously mapped by creative people, can act just as weird as they want and it's okay because they're perceived to be well within the realm of established norms.

We are a ritual class, creative people.  Here's my routine, as might be expressed on the blog above:

I write about two-thirds of the year, the remaining third being devoted to research.  This isn't research for specific projects, but rather a general kind of seeking-out of subjects that may illuminate ideas later on.*

My daily writing habits are not very interesting.  I don't sleep as much as I'd like, so I'll get up with the chorus of lust-maddened birds bleating outside in the morning gloom, put water on to boil, and creak to my desk.  There I read the headlines, a couple of news items, check my assorted social media sites, emails, and so forth.  By the time I'm done, half the water has boiled away.  I make tea.

Then I write for an hour or two.  Once my wife and dogs are moving around, I take a break.  More tea.  Then writing again, or paying work if I have any.  The middle of the day belongs to the world, generally, unless I'm in the early stages of a project, in which case I'll keep writing for 10 hours a day, with breaks for tea, post office, tea, more tea, etc.

Evenings I think I'm done.  We might watch a movie or cook something interesting.  Then, inevitably, I drop by the desk again for a quick glance at what I've done for the day, see things that could use a little work, and end up writing for another two or three hours.  But I always think I'm done for the day before this happens.

That's a typical writing day for me.  Add in breaks and aimless distractions -- I believe firmly that the secret to progress is to stop fairly often -- and that's it.  Find me in the back yard playing the ukulele and ask me what I'm doing: I'll say "I'm writing."  But we're always writing, aren't we?  Just like a Rabbi is always a rabbi, whether he's at work or at home reading the sports pages.

I think the rituals and routines are critical.  They render our daily lives more transparent, easier to transcend.  There's another world out there, and our job is to write it.  We need to make this world more predictable in order to do it.


*For an example of this research, I have lately become interested in the restoration of old violins.  I have a project in mind which would feature a violin restorer, although the character might be quite minor to the work overall.  

However, I've taken the subject so far that there is now a battered old ukulele half-repaired in the garage -- it's cheaper than a violin, but requires identical techniques to restore.  In top condition, similar models re prized by ukulelists.  I'm exploring varnish formulations, solvents, crack splinting, rabbitskin glue, carving and clamps.  When I get the thing done, I'll probably sell it.  As much as I enjoy playing the ukulele, the purpose of the exercise isn't the instrument itself, but rather learning the ephemeral aspects of the craft of instrument restoration.

There are details you can't learn from book research: the roadkill stink of hide glue when it goes bad.  Or the ache of your back after an hour bent over such a small work object.  The moods of old tone woods.  The sound of an unstrung instrument body, its hollow ring when tapped.  The sting of turpentine, the viscosity of ancient varnish stripped, layer by layer, from a surface.  Idiosyncratic touches of the craftsman who constructed the thing in the first place.

More than that, there is the way the mind works while doing such stuff.  A restorer of instruments must find a certain rhythm, a kind of patience and attention that has to be experienced before it can be expressed.

In fact, my interest in ukuleles is also one of these research projects.  It's been a most interesting way to discover how music works, what it's like to make it.  I'm dreadfully non-musical, but a more clement and forgiving instrument it would be difficult to imagine.  So through the humble uke it's become possible for me to explore that world.

That's what my research is like.  It can be any subject that catches my magpie fancy, be it pi or pie-making.  I regard this sort of thing as a part of the writing process, although I'm not writing at that moment.  While writing Rise Again I was obsessed with American muscle cars built between 1960 and 1975.  I can tell you exactly what the vinyl seats in a vintage Duster ought to sound like when you squeak into the car, and why the C6 automatic transmission is so hard to fit into the '67 Mustang, even as original equipment.  

Is the book about old cars?  No.  It's about giving up what you think you have gained in return for what you discover you have lost.  But there's an old Mustang in the story, and if I didn't get that car right, I didn't have a book.  

Why is that?  Because it represented the imagined gains of the main character.  For me, verisimilitude is crucial.  I can't just believe what I'm writing, I have to know it.  Which leads me back to my rituals.  That's one of them: obsession with particulars.

Getting Started

I've been busy writing lately, so haven't had anything to say about writing.  Working on something that may or may not involve zombies and might be a sequel to something else.

But here's the thought of the week: I'm addicted to starting projects.  Not that I have to do it all the time, but there's a kick I get out of taking that first step that nothing else quite delivers.  This, it turns out, is a subject of study.  'Activation cost' is the psychic price of beginning something, whether it's doing laundry or writing a book.

Because a lot of ideas come bubbling up in my head during the course of an average week, I have placed a very low value on ideas in their unexecuted state.  They're like acorns to me, except wild pigs don't eat them.  On the other hand, I place a premium on finished projects, because there are damn few of those in my life.

So I have almost zero 'activation costs' when I pick up an idea and start working on it.

That's something worth considering, I think.  It's a new idea to me.  Here's what I propose: if you're somebody who has a hard time starting things, try starting something every day for a few weeks.  It can be inconsequential stuff, but relevant to your writing.  Poems or haiku.  Free association.  Whatever.  You may well find your activation cost goes down and it's easier to get past that blank page.  Now excuse me, there's a blank page in the next window.