Writer | Teacher | Editor | Publisher
[dahy-uh-lawg, -log] noun. An exchange of ideas or opinions on a particular issue, especially a political or religious issue, with a view to reaching an amicable agreement or settlement.
“It’s good for art to make us think, to give us a shared experience that…makes us talk to each other, including strangers.” ~ Janet Echelman
“That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”
~ Walt Whitman
“What will your verse be?”
It was a farce, this whole business of playing Twister. Larry sat there with the spinner and studied the four corners: right, left, all hands and feet. Not a thing about a nose. He could win by a nose. By a hair. By a sneeze. It was clear the lady of the house had a terrible allergy. He saw her now–right foot on red, left hand on yellow–bobbing her head in an oncoming attack. He’d bathed and brushed, but there was little he could do about his dander. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come to the party, except that someone on the block had mentioned hot cider, and he did love a good apple cider. No one had mentioned games for the supple.
Relegated to the sidelines, he flicked the spinner; it landed on blue. He whinnied, while everyone whined and scrambled for a spot. Arms entwined, bodies bent, Larry sat stiff in the chair, banished yet again. So when the lady of the house set her toe near the corner and turned her backside his way, it was only natural that he lean in. Nip. Call it a night.
When commiserating with other writers, we often talk about the struggle to find time to write, especially if we aren’t getting paid to write. We’ll put the creative work after family, the day job, dinner, and hope that we might squeeze in a few hours here or there.
While that struggle is real, I’ve noticed that having more time on my hands doesn’t always translate into more writing. The true challenge for me lies in making space for writing, in both physical and mental ways.
I’m a traveling writer: I work on a laptop. I mark my place at the dining room table or the local coffee shop. Recently, I set up a corner in an art studio where I can slip away and write once a week.
This physical space, wherever I designate it for the day, “fosters my need for creativity,” as K.K. Fox says in a post on Lipstick Junkies in the Trenches. I need that space to fully immerse myself in the work and remind myself that I am serious about what I am doing.
But there comes a time when physical space isn’t enough. Sometimes I need to make mental space for writing as well.
I’m a writer with a day job: my regular pay-the-bills job and a part-time part time job, both unrelated to writing. For a long time, I have worked that part-time part time job as a way to cushion my bank account however little. I love the work, the people, and the hours aren’t necessarily killing me. But in the last year I have played with the idea of leaving. The job may serve its purpose monetarily each month, but the energy it takes to schedule those hours, and to get there, is sometimes more than I’m willing to give.
Still, the decision to quit has been a difficult one. I’ve had countless conversations with friends and writers in hopes that someone (or everyone) will point me towards the burning bush that signals stay or go. It’s possible someone did point out such a sign (and possible they did it more than once), but while I anguished over the decision, I don’t think I’d been entirely ready to let go until now.
At a recent coffee date (when in doubt, go for coffee), a writing friend suggested I watch Neil Gaiman’s commencement speech from 2012, saying that my part-time part time job may be the kind of thing that stands in the way of my goals as a writer.
I watched the speech, and there it was–the burning bush. The same message I’d been hearing all along but a message I was finally ready to absorb. He says:
Sometimes the way to do what you hope to do will be clear cut, and sometimes it will be almost impossible to decide whether or not you are doing the correct thing, because you’ll have to balance your goals and hopes with feeding yourself, paying debts, finding work, settling for what you can get.
Something that worked for me was imagining that where I wanted to be…was a mountain. A distant mountain. My goal.
And I knew that as long as I kept walking towards the mountain I would be all right. And when I truly was not sure what to do, I could stop, and think about whether it was taking me towards or away from the mountain.
Leaving the job became a little more clear cut. The cushion in my savings wasn’t worth the energy I was giving up. No longer working there won’t grant me 20 more hours a week to write (but again, time isn’t always the factor); letting it go, however, opens up more mental space for all sorts of new and creative things. And for me, all signs point to writing.
