I have a rhythm and a work schedule for writing my
thesis. I also have a deadline. What I need now is a way to stay awake for
twenty-four hours a day over multiple weeks.
Unlike the literature thesis people, who choose a topic and
then may be totally and completely stuck with it until they want to toss their
research into a pyre to liberate themselves, I've chosen a genre I work in
daily, and by daily I mean … daily. I
write at least an hour a day, every day, and have kept this regimen up for
almost two-and-a-half years. If I burn
myself out now, I'm roadkill on the steaming pavement of the literary
superhighway. There will be nothing left of my capstone project except a chalk
outline of my failed brain and a faint stench in the air.
A thesis buddy has taken me under her wing, and we meet in a
coffee shop weekly for both mass production and general morale purposes. I also discover that, similar to topic
burnout of the literary scholars, we composition scholars (May I even call
myself that? Good gawd, I sound so
pretentious.) suffer from genre burnout.
I am finding myself more and more distracted by some fiction pieces I'm
also writing, snippets that lend themselves to the scenic and historical
locations where my thesis partner and I meet.
Turns out I don't just need a buddy; I need a writing cop to
handcuff me to my notebooks.
That's another thing.
I don't mind typing drafts on my desktop at home, but I despise typing
on my work laptop. I prefer notebook paper, loose-leaf, wide-ruled, three-hole
punched, and it has been thus for as far back as I can remember. My Christmas list forever has been the same:
notebook paper and some decent pens.
Period. Cheap date. Easy pickings. A guy at work the other day randomly handed
me some loose-leaf paper and some spiral notebooks, thinking he was dumping
them on me, pulling a fast one. Scared
the crap out of him when I started jumping up and down and thanking him
profusely. Not many people get that
excited about $3 worth of Staples cast-offs, so my reaction often makes others
strangely uncomfortable.
I drive an hour, perhaps a little less, to our weekly
creative sessions. I spend almost as
much time traveling to these venues as I do being there and writing, but the
travel time offers up some freerwriting time, which I undertake rather dangerously,
blindly scribbling thoughts into a huge notebook as I tool down the road. It is this simple act that makes me glad I am
right-handed and not presently driving a stick shift. Yes, the distance may seem long to some, but,
and this is an important point, we are at the beach to do our writing. We are on the coast. Our view from the table stretches Newburyport
Harbor and beyond. This is
inspiration. This is Nirvana. This is priceless.
When I attend these Saturday morning marathon writing
sessions, I like to be armed with a multitude of supplies. I pack my writing bag like I pack my
luggage. It's a constant battle of
over-packing for what-ifs: What if it
snows in Delaware in the middle of July (it doesn't - the temperature never
falls below third-degree skin burns from the car upholstery); what if I need hiking boots while staying at
the beach (I don't even wear shoes the whole time I'm there); what if I need a bathing suit and a snow
suit while in Vermont over the summer (okay, this one isn't such a stupid
question because it happens … often). I
pack notebooks and pens and pencils and writing magazines and writing manuals
and rough drafts and final drafts and food.
I pack as if I am staying at that coffee shop for weeks. I am, after all, an expert multitasker. In the end, it doesn't matter because only
have time to do one thing: I write.
My Saturdays will soon disappear, though. One Saturday nearing I will be cat-sitting
while my daughter and her husband move to another state. Yes, dear daughter, I intend to take awkward
pictures of Boogie the Kitty and post them on Facebook while you are hauling
furniture around so you'll know how much fun she is having without you. After that, the college lacrosse schedule
looms with early Saturday games, some here, and some in and around the state of
New York (division II doesn't know how to make local friends, apparently). I need to carve out time for that, as well as
stay the course for having the thesis done and supporting my thesis partner as
she stays her course, too.
Philip Gerard, author of the book Creative Nonfiction: Researching and Crafting Stories of Real Life,
claims there is always a magic moment.
An epiphany. A moment when the
light breaks over Marblehead. I believe
he is correct, and I will take this magic moment and as many more as my
wide-ruled notebook paper will allow me.
Until then, I'll stick to Saturdays as diligently as I can, enjoy the
ride, and understand that some things happen for reasons. My thesis partner didn't just find me; I
found her, too, and we've found others to bring into the fold.
Drive an hour for this?
I'd drive the world if it means I can keep writing.
