A few weeks ago the UK enjoyed a succession public holidays equalling lots of long weekends. Like most people I spent this time visiting relatives, patronising the garden centre and lounging about in an indolent and despicably unproductive manner. However, all that was after breakfast. Before the morning repast, immediately upon waking, I wrote. I wrote more steadily and freely than I have in a long time. Before the rest of the household roused themselves for the day I found a quiet spot at a desk with a view over the garden and wrote solidly for about hour every morning of my holiday.
That which I wrote may be a long, long way from genius (I’m being too modest, I know), but it was words down on the page and I returned to work feeling a great sense of achievement.
Returning to my flat, work and the normal routine completely killed this creative drive. Try as I might, I can’t match the level of productivity that I reached over those few days in April.
Why is it so hard to write, when writing is what I want to do? I procrastinate, distracting myself with housework – housework for pity’s sake! Dealing with the humdrum tasks of my life seems to sap my creative juices. A break from the routine pulled me out of the rut I had fallen into. But now – I’m right back in there.
There seemed to be three key components to my productive weekend that I need to reproduce;
- Most obviously, getting to work early in the day. My ideas seemed strong and vivid before the day caught up with me, and the sense of achievement was enough encouragement to wake up early the next day to do the same again. Of course, the answer is to get up early and write first thing. Trouble is I’m a lazy son of a gun. Can I have a volunteer to kick me up the backside at 6.00am every day?*
- The novelty of a fresh perspective. For me it was a view over a shady, suburban garden. How do I refresh my brain sat at my kitchen table staring at the view of the factory chimneys?
- A feeling of freedom. I couldn’t do any housework even if I wanted to, because my house was fifty miles away. When Virginia Woolf wrote about a room of one’s own, she should have thrown in a handful of servants too. How do you find time to write when there are always metaphorical potatoes to be peeled?
*Don’t all rush at once.
