Aulus-les-Bains (V)

I woke up feeling a little lost about where to take my writing. Yesterday's energy had propelled me forward, but now I felt like I was facing something of an uphill climb. Through my window, the mountains were obscured by lingering clouds. Today wasn't going to be a day that could distract me with a brisk, sunny walk, so I was going to have to plow right ahead. Over breakfast, I said all this out loud, and I learned I wasn't the only one. Some had experienced this feeling yesterday, while others felt the same today.

Back in my room I languished, staring at my screen, and at my notes, before opening Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird, the ever-welcome little writing bible that helps fight doubt, anguish, and perfectionism, and emphasises the joys of writing.

Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he'd had three months to write. It was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, ‘Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.’

I read fifty or so pages, and its chapters on perfectionism, and short assignments, spurred me on.

[...] I finally notice the once-inch picture frame that I put on my desk to remind me of short assignments. It reminds me that all I have to do is write down as much as I can see through a one-inch picture frame. This is all I have to bite off for the time being. All I am going to do right now, for example, is write that one paragraph that sets the story in my hometown, in the late fifties, when the trains were still running. I am going to paint a picture of it, in words, on my word processor. [...] That is all we are going to do for now.

I started excavating a childhood memory I hadn't thought about in forever, and felt my wheels starting to turn. Before I knew it, I had written another 300 words, then 500, and I was off to the races once more. Some of them were usable, more so than I could have imagined had I not started typing away.

And this has been really fascinating, these past few days: learning more about how my writing process plays out when given a good chunk of dedicated time. Switching between writing on my computer, analysing my own writing by filling pages in my notebook, and reading other people's writing. Using every day to improve the writing I have, focusing on one or two sections of a piece, rather than scrapping everything and starting over or directing my attention to something new entirely: I feel I've learned how to better use the tools at my disposal, if you will.

I still don't know if this piece I'm writing will be finished (or adequate) by tomorrow night, but I'm hopeful I can take this experience and apply it when I'm back home, back to carving out little pockets of time to write outside of my day job, and in my daily life.

P.S.: Nosferatu was fantastic. I loved it.

This was part V in a series of posts on my time at the Camp residency in Aulus-les-Bains. Continue reading the next (VI), or catch up on previous posts: IV, III, II, I.