It's okay to get distracted

In fact, what could be more natural?

Convergence by Jackson Pollock (1952, Source: Wikipedia)

No. 98: It’s okay to get distracted

I was violently yanked away from my habit of writing and reading two weeks ago and I’ve been away until today. It’s not great, but it’s not the end of the world either.

Which is worth noting. 

Not long ago, this would have been my exact definition of the end of the world. If I neglected my work for a day or two or three, all was lost. I would lambaste myself with rhetoricals drenched in disgust. 

You’re going to let yourself get distracted again, you idiot? Can’t you stay focused just once? You call yourself a writer? In what world? Ever heard of having a spine?

Which would only prevent me from getting back to work even longer.

Now, I let myself be yanked away. 

And I don’t rush back, either. 

Because it’s okay. 

I’m not going to abstain from the varieties of life if it means being led away from writing and reading momentarily. In fact, being led away might be what gives color to my sentences. If literature is about the experience of being human, how much can I know if sit behind a computer screen all day?

This time, it was my new-to-me car that cut a Y in the road. Like any good path with a split in it, there was a mossy signpost between the two options with arrows pointing in either direction. The left, “Continue writing and reading and ignore all else.” The right, “Let’s fix this baby up and go driving, eh?”

I went right. 

Over the last two weeks, I took the car apart and put it back together again. I loaded it with camping gear and drove it really far on an overnight road trip — twice. I made some new car enthusiast friends. I laughed and smiled and got angry. I cut my hands and made my body sore and lodged metal into my skin.

And I had a great time.

When my inner voice opened its mouth to tell me to get back to the keyboard, as I knew it would, I stood up to it for the first time, telling it to please, shut up. That voice is a cowardly one. It’s ridden with self-doubt. It’s so unsure of its status as a writer that it must constantly reaffirm itself through the act of reading and writing alone.

Which, enough. 

I’m a writer. Even when I don’t write, I’m a writer. Writing isn’t like other things. It’s lifelong. It’s difficult. It takes time. And as I’m sure any artist can corroborate, my writing is something I continue to machinate even as I drive 90 mph down some Wisconsin backroad. If some writers have a process more consistent than mine, excellent. Who I am and how I live? It’s what makes my writing mine. To go against the grain or abstain from all that gives me pleasure are certain ways to kill the magic.

That said, it’s clear to me that I’m as light as the seed of a dandelion. I’m liable to be picked up and swept away at any moment. In my experience, I eventually touch down again and get back to whatever I was doing before I was unexpectedly lifted off my feet — at least until the next gust sends me flying.

Is that a weakness or a strength? 

It all depends, I guess. I’d like to believe it’s a some kind of blessing to be so easily carried away by all that I find fun, fascinating, or beautiful. So long as I resist trying to explain it, block it, or let my inner voice villainize it, I think it’s a good insofar as following your passions is good.

This time, though, more than just passion was at play. 

This will be my first full winter in the Midwest. 

I can sense the coldness coming like a tsunami tracking a direct course for my corner of the world. There a little signals. When a tsunami is near, the shoreline slowly recedes. Here, the nights get colder than what I can reasonably permit for mid-October. On Monday, I watched tiny snowflakes drift past my window then suddenly stop as if God realized he hadn’t read his calendar correctly.

There are things to do before the snowflakes fall again and keep falling. Preparing for this day, or at least relishing in the snowflake-free days before it, has also been a distraction. 

Fall here has been stunning. Unlike California where the seasons blend into a general summer and general winter, there is a real sense of ending here — of natural death. The weather has gone from humid and hot to temperate and cool. The sky, cloudless blue. Like fireworks, the trees are going out with a burst of color before dropping their leaves. There’s no need to mow the lawn because apparently it stopped growing. All nature seems to be performing its last song, taking a bow before the curtain falls. 

And that rubs off on a person.

Given that the months ahead are filled with sensations I’ve heard of but haven’t felt — subzero temperatures, more snow that what’s fun or novel, black ice — I’m trying to get outside as much as I can before the air gets colder than a walk-in freezer, which I have felt. I, like the trees, am preparing for a kind of death. The death of outdoor life as I know it. The death of going outside without a coat and gloves. The death of reading under a shady tree while popping grapes into my mouth. 

The inevitability of my coldest winter has made my literary avoidance feel more acceptable than usual. The dying days of the plants, the bugs, and the yellow sunlight are so beautiful and unlike anything I’ve seen before that I only want to be outside and appreciate, not analyze or write or read. The books can wait. I’m stacking them up like firewood to keep me warm through the freezing months. Once warm, I’ll spend the winter hours writing, imagining, and thinking.

And I’m really looking forward to that.

Life as a Californian was a constant tug-of-war between playing outside or sitting still, which is a great luxury to have. But here, very soon, my options will be summarily reduced for me by mother nature herself. I’ll still ride my stationary bike (begrudgingly) and gear up to walk my dog through snowy landscapes. But besides that, is this not the perfect opportunity to get completely and utterly lost in the land of letters? This hiatus has felt a little like the last days of a vacation. I’m paying my last respects to the outside would, saying through my wistful admiration of it, Thanks for a beautiful spring, summer, and fall, Mama Nature, but in a short while, you’ll no longer be very accommodating to my vital functions. No hard feelings. I’m just going to go inside for a change to see what I can find.

This period of distraction is coming to end. No doubt, there will be more. But when the next one comes, I’m going to try to keep up this Not Being Disgusted With Myself Every Time I Stray thing, because if the pull is strong enough to take me away from my love of books and writing, it’s probably a pull I shouldn’t resist. Like all else, the amount of all-consuming passions one feels in the course of their life is limited. What a tragedy to quash that passion or to characterize it as a nuisance?

George Saunders, a writer I bring up a lot because 1) I love his work and 2) he’s one of the most frequent commenters on the craft, talks a lot about “self-gaming” and “getting out of your own way.” It’s seeming to me that getting out of my own way also means letting myself wander, even if it’s sometimes away from writing. When I give myself this freedom, it’s easier to find my way back.

And there’s another plus.

When I let myself wander, I’m almost guaranteed to have something fresh to write about when I return to my keyboard — even if it’s the wandering itself. ♦

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Weekly Three

HEAR: “New Town” by Life Without Buildings

READ: This single-page about the dead coming back to life when they get bored. (Austin Kleon)

VIEW: I snapped some photos of the fall colors around my house.