Like a mother about to give birth, writers–and probably all creative types–tend to find a billion things to do before sitting down to work. I know this because of interviews with writers I’ve seen and read, books and articles about writing by writers both little- and well-known, and other blog posts I’ve read from other writers, most of whom are better than me. For mothers, it’s called nesting syndrome, or nesting instinct. Animals will prepare a nest or a spot for the birth of their babies. For humans, mothers will often clean the house, do things that they’ve been putting off for one reason or another. I don’t know if it has a name for creative people, but I’m in the midst of it right now, which is why I’m posting here.
It’s 9:29 PM on December 28th, 2014 as I write this sentence. So far, I’ve organized some of G’s Christmas gifts, which included straightening my desk. I’ve gone through some of the gift bags that we hadn’t really gone through yet. I balanced my checkbook. I posted my musing on the nesting syndrome on Twitter and Facebook. I remembered that I haven’t posted a blog since I last posted a blog (a few weeks back…? [Eight days ago]) and decided that I must post at least once more before 2014 ends and 2015 begins.
This week I printed out the 2nd draft of Echoes on the Pond and it’s sitting in a box behind me, and I know that I have to get to it. The blue Pilot Precise V5 rolling ball pens that I use are ready. The manuscript is ready. I’m ready! Even the toddler is ready!
Yet, here I sit, writing a blog post that will…do what? Add to the white noise that social media has become? But I’m compelled. I have no choice. Nesting syndrome.
It’s not that writers dislike writing. Well, most writers. There’s that famous quote from Dorothy Parker that goes, “I hate writing, I love having written.” Maybe she did. I’ve heard other writers say that sort of thing, too. I don’t feel that way. Most of the writers I read seem not to feel that way. For most of us, it’s too much work for too little gain. I mean, right now I have a contract sitting here that I need to read, possibly haggle about, and then sign and return to an editor. The pay day for said contract is small. It’s a reprint, and it’s for a friend, but still. I’ll do the professional Haggle Dance (that I should’ve done on another contract from a different editor/publisher that I think I got screwed over on–oh, boy! Live and learn!) and that will be that. Then I await payment. It could cover the cost of half a take-out order.
I’m not writing for the money (I’m publishing for the money, but that’s another post for another time; when I really have something to say about it), I’m writing because I fucking love it. So are most writers. People who think Stephen King hasn’t written a book with his name on it since the 1970s don’t get it. People who question the “prolificacy” of writers don’t get it. Sure, you have your James Pattersons and Tom Clancys who hire people to write from outlines they provide while turning out a book a year or every two-to-five years, but most writers who have large quantities of books under their belt do it because they love it. As I’ve often said, writing is like playing with the action figures I grew up with.
So why the procrastination?
Anyway, I really should get to it.
Although, there is that contract that needs to get looked at….