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The Witchcraft of Writing 11/3/2010 3:37:19 PM
Three-day weekends can alter reality. They remind me that there’s an entire world aside from the one swooping circles in my head. That’s where I’ve been hanging out these last few weeks, working on a new manuscript. And dare I say (in a whisper), it’s going well. Too well, if yesterday was any indication.
I write when no one else is home. It’s why I didn’t get around to book writing until public education took over childcare. My writing ritual is my dirty little secret, and I like it that way. A promising day begins after I return from dropping my son off at school. I toss the dogs some biscuits, squeeze the steeping teabag from my mug, and disappear into to the sunroom. About a year ago, I dropped my favorite mug into the kitchen sink, cracking the bottom. I thought I’d never write another word. I was convinced that any ability to write was channeled through the ritual of the process. Of course, it was utter nonsense, but for me a rational conclusion. When busy writing, I’ll retreat to replenish the tea or pee, and that’s about it. If progress is adequate, I’m allowed a reward, such as checking my email. It’s more satisfying than chocolate, particularly if there’s something fun from my editor, agent, or publicist. But email can be a slippery slope. It’s a zipline to Facebook, which I believe is the modern day writer’s fifth of gin.
I write in our sunroom—an oversized, poorly thought out room enclosed from a 1940’s porch. It’s always too hot or too cold, certainly not conducive to anything but watching the world go by. And ironically, that’s the last reason I’d sit there. But my sunroom is not without its charms, accordion fold windows with tiny brass plates that read: Boston Window Company, a business that closed its doors, and windows, a half century ago. Equally compelling is a wall of Bayport postcards, displaying my Long Island roots. Rarely, do I stop to absorb the view afforded by the Boston Window Company. The postcards, on the other hand, can be indulgent, mesmerizing… comforting if the email is something I didn’t want to hear.
I talk about this writing spot like it’s something to behold, something inspiring and chaste. Nothing could be further from the truth. Writing in this room can be consuming and draining, not to mention annoying if you’re one of the other persons who live here. I write with blinders. I sit down shortly after seven, and on most days I am stunned to discover that it’s well past noon. If I’m engrossed in a project, three-day weekends are the bane of my existence. Regular weekends, I’m trained to do. I enjoy breakfast in the kitchen, blaring ESPN college football coverage, and feeding Lola, our cockapoo, sausage off my fork—better on her lips than my hips. I listen to my husband rattle off the chores his son is assigned but will probably not perform, and I take time to review the homework said son will do if I have anything to say about it. Three-day weekends throw my ritual out of whack. It’s un-American not to look forward to a three day weekend. I get that. Yet, I cringe when the calendar suggests as much, wondering why after a fine Saturday and Sunday, after eggs and pancakes, another hot breakfast and more communal gathering is expected. My family is excited to be there, enjoying lawful hooky. And me, I’m left wondering why they’re in my house, well past seven, on a Monday morning.
It’s selfish and ridiculous; I’d never argue otherwise. But it’s how writers’ work… well, it’s how this writer works. I never feel like I can afford to walk away from a workable stream of thought. When we find ourselves faced with these red-letter Mondays, it’s time for an intervention. One occurred this past weekend when I was whisked away to Salem. Yes, that Salem filled with witches and eerie history and people—busloads of people in the month of October. Which is why, if I’d been of sound mind, I would have offered an at home reenactment, willing to burn my manuscript in effigy. If you live in Massachusetts, going to Salem in October is kind of like volunteering for Chilean mine duty. Regardless, we went. It was everything I anticipated: the outdoor mall filled with bobbles and trinkets, likely cursed, if you didn’t spend at least fifty bucks and kiosks serving up gluttony. Three short centuries ago, food like that would have secured you a date with dry straw and a torch. Punishment today only amounts to an attempt to locate a public restroom. Inevitably, there are the tombstones, the cement that bonds Salem’s past to its present. It’s where the zombie parade and Salem’s reality find themselves at an unholy crossroad. You’d like to chalk it up to folklore: the accused, the trials, and the burnings. But you know it’s not the case. Salem has to be one of the most confounding places on earth: devoted to the joyous spectacle of tourism while tied to a merciless past.
On Tuesday, I retreated back to my sunroom, everyone else returning to their daily rituals. But I couldn’t shake Salem, not quite. Perhaps because I live in an old house that creaks and groans on occasion or because I couldn’t separate the dog and pony show of Salem from what happened there in 1692. I stared at the computer screen for a while, until the tea went cold, thinking you couldn’t make that up.
