Last week I wrote about developing a daily writing practice. I was talking about the many real and perceived barriers that stop professors from sitting down and writing for 15-30 minutes every day. Today I’ll share some thoughts about knowing when to close your laptop, stand-up, and walk away.
Once you finally get into your chair, close your Outlook and Gmail, go through your focusing ritual, and open your document what happens? I often start by reading what I’ve written so far, sometimes making small tweaks as I go. Once I’ve started doing that, I usually end up losing myself in the process. I start writing where I left off or I find a gap that needs to be filled for the about-to-be-written section to make sense. I often lose track of time and can find myself typing away or hyper-focused on something small like how to word a transition. Either way, I’m in my document. I’m still sitting in Jaho, or in my office, or on my couch. But my thoughts and attention are somewhere else. Getting into that state of flow is wonderful, but I’ve found that the line between flow and stubborn self-abuse can be very fine.
You’re finally writing. You can’t stop now. You did almost nothing. Forget about moving your body and taking that sip of water. Keep going. Accomplish something!! This is the self-talk that keeps me tied to my chair for far too long.
My legs ache, my jaw clenches, and I’m writing, deleting, and rewriting the same unimportant sentence again and again. Once stubborn takes hold, standing up and walking away is harder and harder. I can’t count how many times it’s kept me in my office until 11:00 pm on a Friday night.
Michelle Boyd introduced me to the importance of ending well. End well to make starting tomorrow easier. And Rich Furman taught me how to use a timer, to recognize can’t-get-up, body-cramped refusal to stop for what it is. To not confuse self-abuse with my writing process.
He even suggested that I write a note to myself on an index card. “I have no writing goal. I have a writing process. It is not my job to abuse myself with Draconian writing expectations. My job is to have quality writing sessions.” I’ve been carrying that card around for a year.
If I stop when my orange owl egg-timer tells me that 30 minutes are up, I know where and how to start the next time I sit down. And I walk away feeling virtuous for having done my 30 minutes, without giving the negative voice in my head a chance to tell me all I didn’t do. I don’t always remember to start the timer. I didn’t when I sat down to write this, and I probably spent too much time. So here I am, ending well, before frustration kicks in.
