Cool Down: From Typing To Writing

It’s 11:18 p.m. For me, a parent of two, it’s late. Really late. So why am I still up? Just as important—why am I writing? Is it because I can finally think in the quiet of the night? Or is it that I don’t have to think?

The TV is finally turned off and I’m left with my thoughts. Unfortunately, it seems there are few thoughts there. But that doesn’t keep me from typing. There’s something inside of me that screams, “WRITE!”--so I write.

While on the couch tonight for two hours, I loathed myself. I watched shows about tattoo artists changing people’s bodies. The artists were the essence of punk rock and were given amazing opportunities. They drove race cars, designed shoes for Vans, had their logos put on Ludwig drum sets. I want to do that. I want to do something huge. But to do it, I’ve got to write.
So I remind myself over and over: You are a writer. I realize I’m talking in third person, make the quick switch.

I am a writer.

So why am I wasting my time in front of the tube? There are hundreds of thousands of words to write, and I’m suckling the glass teat. (Props to Rob Sievert for that tag.)

Well, at least I have something to write about now. Because if there’s anything worth writing about, it’s the fact that I need to write. Making it even more necessary is the fact that if I don’t write—and if I don’t write well—I don’t eat. During the time I spent watching TV or sitting around doing nothing, I could have finished up a month’s worth of articles for a client. I could have created 10 killer pitches. I could have gone to bed.

And trust me. I want to go to bed. I just can’t right now. The need to write hasn’t hit me this hard in a long time. Yes, I do write every day, but it’s not always out of love for the craft. It’s out of duty. If I don’t write, I get so far behind I’ll never catch up. Sometimes, it’s embarrassing to admit, I even have to force myself to write.

Just a few years ago, I would have killed to pay bills with writing. Now I have to force myself to pound the keys. Not now. Now I’m so mad at myself all I can do is type. But I don’t want to just type. I want to write. There is a great short story somewhere inside that needs to get out. I will write it. There’s a novel that I started years ago that will get finished. And it will get published. And I will not pay to publish it. Someone will pay me for the manuscript. And while the next book may be impossible to start and finish, I’ll know I can do it. So I will. And then one day, I will have to force myself to write novels, too.

Then I’ll have another late night. It will be 11:28 p.m. and I won’t be able to go to bed. I may try to, but it won’t do any good. I’ll stare at the ceiling, wishing I had a notepad beside my bed to jot down a few ideas. But those ideas won’t be enough. I’ll need a keyboard in front me because I type 4 million times faster than I write and my handwriting hasn’t been legible for decades. And when I’m done writing whatever it is I have to write—whether a sonnet, a short story, or an essay about my need to write—I’ll breathe in. And the air will feel fresher and more airish than it has for years. And then I’ll go to sleep. I will still struggle between sleep and writing, but I will be content knowing the desire is still there, and it will be back again.