Lagging Journalism

Let’s talk about writing for a bit.

I have been told that I’m a good writer. It’s a phrase that seems misleading. What people are commenting on is my work, in it’s already written form. The writing, they say, is good.

To describe someone as a good writer, however, could also imply that you think the person is good at the act of writing itself, not the creation of the words, but the actual job of getting thought to word-processor, and then to reader, all in an orderly manner. And in my case, I’m afraid, this statement could not be further from the truth. What I am good at is staring at the wall, searching the Internet for inane trivia, and accomplishing household tasks that include, but are not limited to, rearranging the freezer and dusting off major pantry shelves. The actual writing part is hard to come by.

Let me be clear, this is not writer’s block. Writer’s block is that thing I suffer mid-semester when my brain is so maxed out on logarithmic functions I cannot remember what my watch says no matter how many times I check the hour, never mind deign to dream up some inspired article. This particular brand of waylaid creativity is called productive procrastination, that is the process by which you accomplish many, smaller, and seemingly less appealing tasks instead of tackling the one order of business you actually set out to fulfill. It can apply to nearly any scenario I imagine—filing your taxes or cleaning out the attic. For me, it refers exclusively to writing.

Actually, I have likely done all the before mentioned tasks instead of tether myself to my desk as intended. I do not like electron orbital theory, yet it has a system to it, a way for me to scan a textbook repeatedly and eventually, with enough perseverance, come up with some sort of answer. There is in fact an answer: a right or wrong solution to the problem at hand. Such is not the case with the creative, written word and story. The start and end are both elusive, and the middle could meander anywhere in between. And that is a thought so daunting I’ll need to take a break, often before I’ve really begun.

Yesterday alone I took a spray bottle and scouring pad to several surfaces of my kitchen and bathroom. That’s right, I spent Monday willingly scrubbing out the inside of the toilet in place of writing this blog post. This is that brief moment of summer when I am in a lull between classes, working only part time, and supposedly stock piling valuable articles, editing past quips, and sending out resumes and writing samples like my livelihood depends on it. My livelihood could depend on it. And still I have spent the afternoon taking a Q-tip to the greasy crevices of the stove and cleaning crumbs out from under the refrigerator. I have become the sort of writer who vacuums reliably.

I am a planner. I do the research, I make informed decisions, I never miss deadlines. Yet I seem to have developed some system wherein I base all my creative decisions and projects on unknown cosmic forces, mysterious even to myself. I arrive at my desk each afternoon with ample time to get to work and decide quickly that something in the mood is not quite right, the lighting is off, the chair is much too hard. I am the goldilocks of the literary profession.

I have performed strange rituals of urban Feng Shui in which I shove the furniture around my room until something feels right. I have decided that the vibe will be better after I go for a walk, bake cookies, or catch up on some correspondence. I have probably made lunch. I definitely made lunch.

Prosciutto, arugula, and olive oil toasted baguette, rubbed all over with garlic while still hot front the oven.

And then I likely lunched leisurely, reading someone else’s scholarly work, marveling at their willpower to crank out such a tome and all the while prolongedly chewing spicy rocket greens in the name of literary hesitation.

It seemed at first shocking to me that I should be so orderly in much of my daily life yet still leave so much up to chance and good vibes in my creative endeavors. And then I realized the source of this seeming personality divide. For all the jokes I make about my hippy parents, they are particularly meticulous people. For instance, our vacuum cleaner bit the dust two years ago. I know what you’re thinking—so, just order up a new one. It should be so easy. Instead we went, all three of us, to the local vacuum mart, armed with print-outs of online research, consumer reports, and stories from other friends and family of their own vacuum woes and triumphs. I understood that my role on this particular field-trip was not that solely of consumer but of inheritor—the appliance surely written into the family will such were the thoroughly researched and lofty expectations for this new machine.

It’s kind of like a bad joke really—what do you get when you mix together two people equal parts teacher, interior designer, anthropologist, and contractor? Two artist parents who say things like do what makes you happy and also decidedly drive you around the East coast's more than than two dozen distinct colleges so you can make an informed decision based equally on enrollment statistics and whatever groovy vibes of the locale. It's the sort of road trip that is filled with opportunity and will bring each of you to tears of frustration at least once. But, then these are the sorts of parents who will make sure you have the creative ability to believe in almost anything, and then the meticulous skillset to make sure those dreams become weight-bearing structures. The joke is actually on me then, I suppose, the kid who could have walked away quietly with a liberal arts degree in languages and literatures but is slogging through collegiate round-two for a Master of Science.

And then it’s not so far fetched either, I guess, that I’ve ended up here, in the early hours of the morning typing hard at the document I ignored all of yesterday, and most of today, because there was laundry to get done and my desk was facing a bit too much towards the southwest.

On my walk to the gym this morning I passed a police officer. One of Brookline’s finest. It took me a moment to understand his purpose, stationed prominently at the corner of Harvard and Beacon. He did not seem to be investigating any local shenanigans, nor directing traffic. And then it struck me: he was there to protect the pavement.

Let me explain. The Brookline sidewalks have been a mess for weeks, large sections torn out for regrading, and the walking path whittled down to a mere strip of cement on which neon-cladd joggers, grocery bags laden seniors, and tired parents with multiple children in tow, all must vie for space. So, to play devil’s advocate for a moment, I suppose this officer did have a purpose. He was prominently positioned to protect the freshly laid laminate from impatient pedestrians, such as myself, cavalierly side-stepping this commuting clusterfuck to stride through fresh cement in the name of actually getting to work on time.

Except if we’re being honest, this gentleman was literally, physically, watching cement dry. Tax dollars well spent, indeed. That was his job for the better part of the day. And it occurred to me that even though I was currently circumnavigating my own afternoon task, no matter what little, menial work I produced, it could literally trump staring at the ground, with ease. Some sort of creative pressure deep within me relaxed.

So here I am, typing too long and too late to the point that tomorrow morning’s wake-up alarm will sound too soon, but something in the air, the evening breeze, the glass and a half of wine I’ve now worked through, any of the above, really, have all magically shifted into place to craft this piece that starts and ends completely inconsequentially. But it's the writing, not the subject, that matters in the end.