Mark Twain has a wonderful quote in Tom Sawyer after the scene where Tom has seduced his friends into helping him whitewash the fence. “Work consists of whatever a body is OBLIGED to do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.” I’m not obliged to write. Yet, I refer to what I do as “work.” A fellow writer questioned this recently. Why did I always say “work” when I refer to my writing practice? She caught me a little off-guard. I had never thought to explain it, but I also thought the answer was obvious. We writers often have to fight for what we need: privacy, solitude, not being interrupted. That’s because most people don’t understand our process. Of course, this is often true for many people who work at home. People think you can drop everything to meet them, pick them up, do them a favor or just chat on the phone. I always hope that by referring to my writing time as “work”, as in “I can’t talk right now, I’m working,” that I’ll gradually train folks to respect it as much as I do. And, I’d say I’ve been fairly successful.
But referring to what I choose to do as “work” is also for my own benefit. I want to not only be a professional, but think of myself as a professional. I want to think of myself as a professional even during spells when I’m not managing to publish a single word. If I don’t think of myself as a professional, how can I expect anyone else to, and therefore treat me as one? I can never think of my writing as a hobby or pastime. Unfortunately, I don’t know of a word in English that is between the two–work vs. play. Calling? Please, what I do is not that exalted. Passion? Only occasionally. So, I’m stuck with work. Technically, I don’t “have to” and nobody gives me a weekly paycheck or assigns my tasks or sets my hours. The obligation is only to myself. But I feel that obligation no less.
I’d like to report that I had a relaxing, peaceful escape from writing over the Thanksgiving holiday. I’d like to, but I can’t. I did have a wonderful day, visiting friends who just moved into a beach house a couple of hours away. I loved getting out of my own neighborhood, loved the tour of their new digs, loved Kathie’s tasty, healthy dinner, loved socializing with two friends I’ve had for decades. But part of me never stops working. Across the road from their house is a vast range of rugged sand dunes, sprinkled with vegetation. I noticed a couple of people, both men, walking (well, trudging, really) separately through the dunes. There were so many hidden gullies between the hillocks, and with so few people about, I thought “what a great place to murder someone.” The surf would cover any noise. It gets cold at the beach and there are plenty of times when any potential witnesses would be cuddled up inside beside their fireplaces. The setting was so picturesque. Now all I need is a motive and a couple of suspects. I’m already describing the characters in my mind. They would have to be fit and young. Those dunes looked pretty daunting. They’re hard to get to, so whoever is there either came in a vehicle or lives nearby. It’s too cold and remote for panhandlers or the homeless to be hanging about. So, the killer and the victim both . . . and on and on.
For me, deadlines are essential. They keep me moving along on projects, keep me on track, establish a fixed end point. But, sometimes they jump around. Occasionally, a market will extend a deadline, for mysterious reasons. This can be a relief, but it can also cause me to slack off. Other times, a deadline gets advanced. Recently I had a November 15 deadline for an essay. This was not an assignment, but a response to a call for manuscripts, so if, for some reason, I didn’t get it in on time, no one would know but me. On the other hand, I found out about the call less that a week before the cutoff date. I had roughed out the first draft right away, but then, the next day, I got a idea for an upcoming story contest, and spent the morning crafting a first draft of that piece. Now there were only three days left to submit the essay. Suddenly, that night, I remembered that the power company would be shutting off the electricity for an entire day–the day before my essay deadline. Which meant if I didn’t get the essay off the day before that, which was the very next day, I’d be stuck with rushing it off Just under the wire. That’s a dangerous practice. All too often, when I’ve done that, I’ve discovered one more fact I need to research, or my Internet connection goes kerflooey or some other crisis trips me up. So, my “new” deadline was now two days before the official one. I succeeded in finishing and submitting the essay on the 13th, and was happy with the result, whether the editor likes it or not. It was a reinforcement of good practices. Start early. Factor in other circumstances. Act quickly on new ideas, before they fade. Now to finish and submit my next project–deadline in two days.
Okay, not a regular hoarder with empty tin cans and decades old newspapers. Think of it this way: do you have pretty underwear tucked away in a drawer, waiting for that perfect romantic date to wear it? Do you have a set of fancy, expensive china that you keep “for good?” That is, only when the most special of occasions warrants hauling it all out? Yet, somehow those occasions never arise, or else, they’re never quite special enough to justify the extra effort. Or is there anything else in your home that’s “too nice to use” and so, guess what, you never use it?
Today is Halloween. You already know that. These days, fewer people are afraid of supernatural beings. But we writers still have fears–the oft-acknowledged rejection, exposure, failure. We already know we have to act in spite of those fears in order to have any achievement at all. This mug reminds me that, while it may be uncomfortable, it’s necessary.
Coincidentally, I picked up a book at 
.
I spent the last few days in Toronto at 
. . . you get the same reactions we have been getting since the creation of dirt. We get questions: where do you get your ideas? We get “help.” “Boy, we should team up and I’ll tell you my life story and you can write it up and it will be a guaranteed best seller.” We get misunderstood, especially on the nature of our work. “I guess you just sit at home all day typing and the money pours in.” We get the rather disheartening question, “what do you write?” which often means, “have I ever heard of you, and if not, I’ll go talk to someone else.” these reactions are usually from people we’ve just met or who don’t know us well. Friends we have gotten to know, or who have gotten to know us, at least have some understanding of what we do and how we do it and are much needed cheerleaders and supporters.
Once again I’m overwhelmed by piles and shelves of unread books. I shouldn’t say, “once again,” because it’s actually a permanent condition. I could never live long enough to read them all, especially since I can’t resist adding to the pile, sometimes daily. In the past, I’ve periodically weeded the bunch, but that’s not near as much fun as finding new stuff to read. And like any addict, I have no problem locating the good stuff. I’m a big fan of 
Lida Bushloper 