So far, so good. I was in the groove. Sunday, I finished my personal experience piece about my first encounter with black people--1000 words, no sweat. Monday, I began a personal experience piece on being a non-driver—600 words. Tuesday, I ruminated on my plans for the Millay biography for 760 words, and Wednesday began a personal experience piece on the first time I met Big D, some 28 years ago, for 615.
On Thursday, June 9, I ran into trouble.
The day began badly. My cell phone woke me at 5AM with a taped message from some bank, supposedly, saying my account had been closed: “Press 1 to re-activate it.” Wasn’t I less likely to participate in a scam when I was angry about being woken out of a deep sleep? Or didn’t the scammers, in whatever part of the world they were calling from, not take account of the time difference? Or did they think someone only half awake was more likely to fall in with their scheme?
Whatever. I was now awake, though bleary-eyed, so I got up, grabbed my coffee, and sat at my desk. My euphoria of the past few days was gone. I didn’t feel like writing.
Blame it on the scammers. Or blame it on the New York Times column that sat open on my laptop. I’d planned to write about the pleasures and difficulties of re-adjusting to coupledom after being single for 14 years, with a view to perhaps submitting the piece to the “Modern Love” column in the Times Sunday Styles section. Re-reading one of these columns had seemed like a good idea.
From their archives, I chose the one the Times claimed had garnered the most interest—the famous training-your-husband-a-la-Shamu article. Bad move. I found the article irritating, a large part of its popularity due I’m sure to the way it plays to an underlying hostility toward husbands in the female readership. To me, that eye-rolling view of men as at heart only little boys or animals in need of training is distasteful. But because the author is so skillfully lighthearted in the telling of her tale, my own feelings seemed prudish, which made me uncomfortable.
More to the point, I hadn’t quite finished reading the article the night before, so this morning my eyes couldn’t help but scan down the page. Reading something written in someone else’s voice just before attempting to write in my own was a killer, undermining the whole concept of coming to the blank page fresh from sleep, especially when I planned to write about something personal. I began, but stopped after about 300 words.
Only one way to make up my daily quota: I reaped another 400 words by writing a detailed analysis of what had gone wrong.
Friday, my enthusiasm was still flagging, though I managed to churn out 650 words of journal writing, including an assessment of the book I’d begun, David Brooks’ The Social Animal, which was both intriguing and puzzling me. My listlessness may have been due to the heat, way up in the 90s. Big D, who was due to arrive for the weekend, had promised to put up the air conditioner for me. Cooler air might help, but his presence would be a challenge. Could I continue to write with him here? An important concern, since we were planning to move in together at some time in the future.
I was right to be concerned. Here’s my complete entry for Saturday, all 46 words:
Not much time to write today. D is here for the weekend. This is a good chance, however, to see whether I can keep this up even with distractions. Even more important, if I can return to the usual when the distraction has gone home.
Reading someone else's style can definitely be an influence. Sometimes it's a good thing, an entry into our own introspection; and sometimes it sets up a rhythm in our head that isn't actually our own. I remember writing a short piece once, and realizing later its rapid, staccato rhythms had been influenced by a story I'd read earlier in the day.
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