My problem with writing is — you have to actually write. It’s not that I am reluctant to write, it’s just I have yet to find a time that’s perfect for writing. Everything else seems to get in the way.
My mornings are designated for books. It makes sense. You hit snooze a few times until you roll out of bed, grind a cup of coffee, add a dash of milk and curl up on the couch to get lost in words. Mine, at the moment, is Slaughterhouse-Five. I love George Orwell’s dystopian ambiance but I thought Kurt Vonnegut’s dark topic with a satirical tone would be a different dish within the same cuisine. Such a treat.
Before any morning meetings, I start my workday with an hour of catching up with trends. This is my AdAge moment. Not that I care but I feel it’s only right for a copywriter to know who WPP hired and fired last week. Then I do my current event readings in small doses — mostly because they are somber and I become too invested to remain focused on work.
Slack notifications ring throughout the typical 9–5 until I slam the laptop shut then wrap up the day with a sweaty workout. I invite high cardio to save time, keeping it under 30 minutes. Anything longer eats away at my patience.
I’m not opposed to writing at night. However, distractions intensify post-dinner. We’re wired to relax and doze off after food. Netflix, Hulu and HBO Max are all calling my name. The huge TV screen mounted to the wall lures me towards it. TikTok and Instagram become deep rabbit holes. I often surrender to their temptations.
Writing before bed isn’t too kind to my brain. It’s a guarantee that unfit sleep will follow. When my mind is stirred up too close to bedtime, it boards me on a train of endless thoughts until the sun comes up. My doctor has warned me about going to bed late but I can’t help it.
I enjoy reading the New Yorker before bed. So much so that I ordered the print version to my house. (They stack up quickly so holler if you would like to share). But reading has become a taxing hobby. I’m not sure if other writers share the same sentiment, but seeing sentences ring in harmony is a slap to the face. A reminder that I should chop-chop and get to work.
In Slaughterhouse-Five, the Tralfamadorian explained why events happened by mirroring a metaphor of bugs trapped in amber — it just is — I froze in awe. We don’t question why ladybugs happened to be stuck in amber, so why do humans question events striking them? There’s no better analogy for life unfolding on earth. I wish I wrote that paragraph. Then I reflect on the distance my writing needs to travel to reach the level of wordsmithing I aspire to. Progress stalls. Writing rusts. All because I have yet to find a good time to write.
But then I promise myself: If morning isn’t the right time to write, noon is too busy for words, and night is too stressful for thoughts … then perhaps there’s no good time to write, which means it doesn’t matter when I write.
And I remember what the great literary critic Burton Rascoe once said: “A writer is working when he’s staring out of the window.”
So, I decided to just write. Dammit. Just fucking write.