Writing in hard times

by Donna Andrews

I'm in the final throes of revising a manuscript that's due at the end of the month.  Right now I like saying "at the end of the month" because it calms me and makes me feel as if I have a vast expanse of time to tinker with my manuscript, instead of FOUR MORE DAYS.  (Maybe I should start thinking "end of the quarter."  No.  I don't need to be that calm.)

And I'm doing the usual end-of-book dance, gyrating wildly between "No!  It's not ready! I need more time!" and "Hallelujah, I can kick it out the door soon!"

About this time in the life cycle of any book, I become eager to get on with the many things I'm shoving aside to make time for the book. Eager, and even a little anxious about how long that "as soon as the book is done" list is getting, so I start doing a few of them.

One thing I did was schedule a routine eye exam last Tuesday.  At least I thought it would be routine. And it seemed routine until the doctor said she didn't like the look of my optic nerve.  It was a little diffuse.  Not crisp.  Maybe a little swollen.  She wanted me back in the next day so they could run more tests.

Did I ever mention that I'm a hypochondriac? I really shouldn't be allowed to watch medical shows on TV, because I'm way too suggestible and can so easily become convinced that I have whatever the patients have.  The only one I allow myself is House, because his patients are always so incredibly ill with so many dire symptoms that even I can usually avoid thinking, "Whoa!  That's me!" And there's nothing worse than arming a hypochondriac with a new symptom and access to the Internet.  Trust me, if you Google "swollen optic nerve," you don't find anything you want to come down with.

So, more tests on Wednesday.  The vision field test was interesting--you peer through a lens and focus on little flashing dots that can appear anywhere on the screen.  (And if you blink, you miss one.  What if you blink too much?  Are they making allowances for blinking? What happens if I flunk the test?) And they took a photo of the inside of my eye that clearly showed that the central blob in the right eye was a bit larger than the corresponding blob in the left eye.  The blobs, apparently, were my optic nerves. My doctor wanted me to see a neuro-opthalmologist. 

Being referred to a specialist is a mixed blessing for a hypochondriac--especially if it's a specialty that's both hard to spell and something you never heard of before.  On the one hand, your health issues are being taken seriously!  Appropriate, highly skilled attention is being paid!  On the other hand--yikes! 

Luckily I was able to schedule an appointment with the neuro-opthalmologist the next day, Thursday. And I forbade myself to do any more Googling, because I know myself too well.  Read me a list of symptoms and I'll start talking myself into having some of them. All of them!  (Anyone else remember that ghastly House episode about leprosy?)

To my relief, the neuro-opthalmologist pronounced my optic nerves to be just fine.  The right one appears swollen in the photo, but it's not.  Apparently I'm just lopsided.

I never thought I'd be so thrilled to find out I was lopsided.  For a couple of days, I was almost giddy with relief.  I wanted to run around celebrating my fabulous lopsidedness and my newly regained ocular health. 

But did I mention that I have this book due?  So after a few burbling emails and phone calls, I sat down and went back to working on the manuscript.  Just as I had Tuesday and Wednesday night.  Putting aside joy to buckle down and work was just as hard as putting aside worry.  I have to admit that I didn't do as much work as I wanted to do any night last week. But I kept plugging away.

I know some writers who have elaborate writing rituals.  Playing the right music, burning candles in some scent that's supposed to encourage creativity. I write in unscented silence, but I will confess to a sneaking fondness for large, uninterrupted stretches of time.  My idea of a perfect writing day is one where I can wake up, amble down to the computer, and settle down to write as long as I like with no interruptions on the horizon, not even a lunch with a good friend or an MWA dinner meeting with a fascinating speaker. 

These days, life doesn't provide many perfect writing days.  Somehow the books get done anyway. 

They get done a little more easily if life doesn't throw me too many curves like last week's eye health scare. 

But whenever I'm tempted to whine that I can't possibly focus on my writing because of something that's going on, I remind myself of what happened on September 12, 2001. I didn't do any writing on 9/11. But I'd just quit my day job to write full time, so on September 12 I sat down at my computer and gave it a try.   I didn't write much that day--a couple of paragraphs.  And I wasn't sure they'd make it into the final book.  I was working on Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon at the time, and I wasn't sure I could even begin to write any of the funny scenes.  But since I'm an outliner, I knew that toward the end of the book, Meg and some others would be held hostage by the villain.  And she would make a wisecrack.  And . . ."

What kind of heartless cynic are you?" Rico exclaimed."How can you make jokes at a time like this? This is serious!"

"Very serious," I said."Or at least way too solemn.

Which seemed to baffle him. He stared at me, and looking back, I could see that I was doing so from the other side of a gap--in fact, an uncrossable chasm.The chasm between people who take life very seriously and those of us who laugh to keep from crying.The people who stand around lugubriously at funerals saying things like, "At least he didn't suffer" or "Doesn't she look lifelike?" and those of us who want to tell tall tales about what a wonderful old reprobate he was and imagine how she'd laugh if she could see the sideshow.The people who sob long-neglected prayers on the steps of the guillotine and those of us who know God will forgive us if we have to banter with the executioner to keep our courage up, as if laughter were a gauntlet we could throw in the face of death.

Or maybe I'm just a heartless cynic.

"Sorry," I said."Just ignore me.It's how I cope."

It's how I cope, too.  So that's how I got through the Great Eye Panic of 2010.  Joked when I could.  Vented to friends when I had to. And tried to keep plugging away at the book. 

Come to think of it, when you're going through stressful times, there are worse things than having a book deadline to distract you.

And now, back to the book.

Comments

[Beth Groundwater]

Well, Donna, I'm glad you're just lopsided and not leprous! ;-)

[Sheila Connolly]

There are times when just sitting down to write is the easy part, an oasis of calm in the midst of our daily chaos.

Yup, my next book is due this Friday, and I'm looking at chunks of it and asking myself, what the heck was I trying to say? What did I mean by this? And is it Tuesday? (In the book? In the real world?)

[Dana]

Distractions work both ways, Donna. Sometimes you need them to get space for the book. Sometimes you need the book to get away from RL. Good luck!

[Kristina L]

I'm glad your eyes are OK. I can't watch hospital shows either, except for reruns of Diagnosis Murder, where they usually didn't show too much.