I used to have this routine. I would get up, get coffee that was hot and fresh thanks to a coffeemaker with a timer, get in the shower WITH the coffee, and steam myself awake. Then I’d sit down at my desk to do my makeup for work, blow my hair dry, and read blogs while I did so. Since I hit the alarm clock’s snooze button as often as I could get away with, I didn’t have much time for this routine, and I was late to work a lot, getting caught up in a compelling discussion about a craft topic, or rubber necking at a trainwreck of an author or a reader or an industry type behaving badly. Once I was laid off permanently (both times, same place) I continued the routine, though I slept in later, not bothering with an alarm clock, so need for the snooze. Coffee and blogs it was, and since I owned my schedule, shower whenever, makeup never. In fact, I had to buy mascara for my son’s wedding a few years ago.
But a funny thing happened along the way. I’d realize riding into work on the bus, my notebook in my lap, my pen poised to write, that I wasn’t writing. I was mentally rebutting the blog comments that had riled me up. Or I was seething over something I’d read that I knew wasn’t true, but had no way of proving without betraying a confidence.
Those feelings ate at me, gnawing and vicious, and I didn’t write. Other times, I found that I wasn’t writing because I was, instead, thinking about the “new way” to develop characters or outline a plot that I’d read about. I wasn’t using my precious quiet time to keep my head focused on my way, my characters, my plot. I’d written how many books by then? I knew what I was doing, knew what worked for me. Yet I was letting the abundance of information out there get in the way of what I was doing. Both good information and bad. Encouraging words and vitriolic. And, yes, some of them mine. Many of those mornings riding to work on the bus, I wrote blog posts instead of pages. My head was busy digesting what I had fed it first thing, and what I had fed it was not nutritional. It was garbage. Tasty, but not the protein and vitamins and minerals and leafy greens and fiber my head needed. Hard to be productive when starting the day with junk food. So I stopped. Not then. Not even after my second lay-off when I knew I was home for good. I still spent countless hours each week cruising blogs and message boards, rarely commenting but seeing what was being said. What did readers like. What did they dislike. What authors had made sales. What houses were buying what genres. It was an information overload of the worst sort. It wormed its way into the synapses of my brain and refused to let the good stuff fire.
So I stopped . . . late last year, maybe. Or earlier this one. I had a book to finish, a lot of research to do for it, and found that I was spending my online time reading about forensic hypnosis instead of gawking at flame wars or wondering why I had never considered that particular way to write a synopsis. I was busy, I lost track of what was going on in the blogosphere. And I never went back. Biggest shocker of all? I don’t miss it. Not a bit. I still check two or three blogs daily, more as I have the time. I have good friends whose thoughts I enjoy reading, but I know it’s going to be a fun time when I go there. Like limerick reviews. Or storytelling insights. I also visit other blogs where I know I’ll enjoy the happy dog moments and never have to worry that my ire will rise.
When my ire doesn’t rise, when I don’t spend time wondering about what anyone but my editors like, when I pay no attention to the way others write and do my own thing, guess what happens? I have ideas. I have words. I get struck by the inspiration that had given up trying to sow seeds in the detritus of my head, unable to find even the smallest patch of fertile ground in which to send down roots. No, I don’t know what’s going on out there in the blogosphere half the time. In the industry, even. Emails from friends are the only way I get word of this news or that. And I’m okay with it. Maybe one day I’ll get back to making rounds.
Maybe I’ll even get back to blogging regularly at my own site, rather than throwing up (Freduian, much?) the occasional post, but my new routine suits me just fine. I sleep late. I visit with whatever family members are still at home, I drink my coffee while checking my business email, then I get down to the work. It’s a good life. Think I’ll keep it. What about you? Do you find you’re spending too much time reading about writing, or talking about writing, or studying writing, and not writing?
