Ideas for February Doldrums

We all procrastinate. For me, it seems to get easier to do so the deeper into a book I write, especially when I’m not at all sure what’s next or if I run into roadblocks or writer’s blocks. Every writer, no matter what they tell you, has experienced both in some way or other. Here are a few things I do if I find myself in either situation.

I break the project down to the littlest chunk I can deal with. If I’m working on a poem that stalls I might go looking for words and make a list, telling myself that’s all I’ll do. The words kick start my sluggish mind and having the pressure off to produce is a great motivator.

If I’m working on a novel, the list of words gets my mind off the story and into the world I’m creating. I often find when the work is coming hard for a novel it’s because I’ve become removed, instead of inside the story

Or I’ll research the subject—Poem or novel. I can’t tell you how often I’ve found inspiration for my best poems from hard, dry facts. That process makes me smile because it just seems so at odds with poetry writing, but I always think of a quote I heard many years ago:

Facts is stubborn things and can’t be drove. —Mrs. Gamp

Facts just are and as you go looking for them, I think you’re mind stops trying so hard and genius slips in. (I hope.)

Another small chunk I do is force myself to write one sentence. It is amazing how often that one sentence leads to more. If the one sentence doesn’t work, I’ll use my timer. It’s an old trick I use to use on my kids when they didn’t want or think they needed a nap. I’d tell them all they had to do was close their eyes for five minutes. I even set the timer for them. I never once had them only nap for five minutes (of course, I snuck in their rooms and took the timer out of the room, turned it off, snuck it back in. I’m not stupid, not even back in those days. Do I feel guilty about trick my kids. Um, no!) I’ve never only written for five minutes.

The best part about doing the smallest thing possible is anyone can do that. Take one step, cut out one dessert, write one word, walk one block and inevitably you can do another, then another and then, there you go.

I’ve been known to take a bribe. Oh, yes and I don’t feel an ounce of guilt about that either. I’ll coerce myself with promises: All I got to do is write 100 words today, then I can go antiquing, have a taco burger (I have no idea why this is such a guilty pleasure, but it is and so fraught with memories, too. The perfect bribe.) or a seafood salad. A new notebook or pen would work or a new houseplant. Hey, I can think of dozens of bribes and I’m so easy I’ll work hard for every one.

Get away from the work. This doesn’t mean I take a vacation, although, sometimes that’s exactly what my mind and body are saying I need. As I’ve mentioned before I’m the primary caregiver for a ninety-four year old parent. That challenge is becoming more and more time intensive. And I am still a mother and wife. The responsibilities and demands challenge my mind and my body every day. And they could easily take over every minute.

So a nice pampered vacation is not in the cards, but all the same I have to be kind to myself for all I do for others. And believe me often the only one looking out for me is me. That has been one of the hardest lessons to learn.

The thing is my writing is my lifeline, the one consistent thing I do for me, but when I am overwhelmed by other’s needs sometimes my work, that lifeline, just won’t come. What do you do when you need a change, a rest, a vacation and it isn’t going to happen? What I do is, first, I breathe: in for 5 counts, out for 5 counts. I just breathe and let stillness surround me.

Sometimes, all I can manage is a glimpse out of my office window, but the sight of trees and rain or snow, of wind, of the old wooden fence, the garden is enough. I can feel my pulse slow, my breathing relax.

Sometimes, I listen to music. Music fills spaces in my soul, it works on the words stuck inside, it puts me in a place and time I’m writing about. It soothes the savage beast. It does.

Sometimes I walk. Outside is best. There is something elemental about the swing of arms and legs, the quiet, the sight of sky and clouds, wind in the trees, leaves scuttling across the ground, the song of birds.

These small escapes are sanity. The worst part about it is my stupid guilt feelings I can’t seem to shake, but I can live with them. I can write with them, too.