I seem to operate on only two modes: busy, buzzy bee or hairy, stinky sloth. I know; neither of those animals lead much of an appealing lifestyle.
In case you are wondering, a sloth is a very bizarre-looking creature that really isn't directly related to any other mammal. All of their closest connected relatives died out during the last Ice Age. Now they live only in the rain forests of South America, sleep 15—18 hours a day, and expend energy only when it becomes absolutely necessary. They mostly just hang their atrociously smelly and hairy bodies from the forest branches; sometimes even after they die, they can have been found still just hanging from a tree. In other words, they are lazy couch potatoes, although based on their habitat, perhaps it's more accurate to call them something like jungle spuds. (See sloth picture below: honestly, can you imagine trying to get anything done with fingernails like that?)
When I am in school taking a full load of classes, I am always reading, researching, and writing,
and I stay in a constantly stimulated state. My brain is in overdrive, making connections, looking for answers, budgeting time for deadlines on projects and papers, while simultaneously working out what kind of frozen or boxed meal I can throw together for my neglected kids while I am working. I am as focused on my target as a killer bee.
However, when I am not in school, or I'm not taking a full schedule of classes, I turn into a sloth—a mangy, slovenly, lazy jungle spud. I take a shower every three days or so, don't shave my legs or armpits, and just kind of "hang."
This worries me about my ability to be self-disciplined enough to be a productive writer. Most profiles I've read of successful authors indicate that the prosperous writer does not wait until some momentous synaptic-rattling jolt of inspiration strikes from the sky. Quite the contrary seems to be the case. The process of writing is often described as an ritualistic practice of tedious trial and error, false starts, and humiliating frustration. It got me thinking about whether Shakespeare had a compulsary writing routine. Did Homer, Dante, or Proust sequester themselves in some kind of regimented writing routine? Did Sun Tzu cordon off special time in his ancient Chinese Day Runner so he could scribble a few scrolls of rice paper on The Art of War? I suppose it's possible that Sumerian scribes got up early each morning, had a cup of joe, and then carved out special time to sit in front of the ol' clay tablet until the sundial moved a certain number of degrees, just to make sure they could grind out at least a few lines of cuneiform each day.
There is no question that man's ability to convey concepts and ideas to each other through complex languages preserved in pictures, symbols, and eventually, scripted language greatly contributed to the unique evolutionary development of human beings. It is what drastically differentiates us from lower animal orders. Archeologists and anthropologists have uncovered an amazing amount of information that was produced by ancient peoples, and these scholars believe that the earliest forms of communication, cave paintings, were not just decoration. They were representative of the transfer of important information and part of a ritualistic practice of some kind. So, here we are, back at ritualistic writing practices again.
I suppose writing does take take disciplined practice; hell, it is work. It had to have been quite a challenge for the ancients to develop alphabetical systems and methods of putting all those ideas down in perpetuity. When one looks at the work that it took to develop writing from scratch, today's authors have it easy—at least they don't need to undertake the monumental task of developing a way to capture language in order to share documented information with other humans. Most contemporary writers simply tap away on the ready-made symbols that decorate those little plastic keys on the computer.
Thinking about all this makes me realize how very little scholars actually know about the individuals who first revolutionized the way humans communicate or what kind of "writing methods" they used. Even within the Early Modern era this remains true. For example, although historians know a good deal about Shakespeare, there are still a lot of questions left unanswered about how and where he went about forming, drafting, and penning the prolific number of works that he produced. But I'll bet one thing's for sure: Shakespeare was no jungle spud.
I guess this means if I want to "bee" a successful writer, I'm going to have to shower, shave, and, of course, write on a routine basis.
In case you are wondering, a sloth is a very bizarre-looking creature that really isn't directly related to any other mammal. All of their closest connected relatives died out during the last Ice Age. Now they live only in the rain forests of South America, sleep 15—18 hours a day, and expend energy only when it becomes absolutely necessary. They mostly just hang their atrociously smelly and hairy bodies from the forest branches; sometimes even after they die, they can have been found still just hanging from a tree. In other words, they are lazy couch potatoes, although based on their habitat, perhaps it's more accurate to call them something like jungle spuds. (See sloth picture below: honestly, can you imagine trying to get anything done with fingernails like that?)
When I am in school taking a full load of classes, I am always reading, researching, and writing,
and I stay in a constantly stimulated state. My brain is in overdrive, making connections, looking for answers, budgeting time for deadlines on projects and papers, while simultaneously working out what kind of frozen or boxed meal I can throw together for my neglected kids while I am working. I am as focused on my target as a killer bee. However, when I am not in school, or I'm not taking a full schedule of classes, I turn into a sloth—a mangy, slovenly, lazy jungle spud. I take a shower every three days or so, don't shave my legs or armpits, and just kind of "hang."
This worries me about my ability to be self-disciplined enough to be a productive writer. Most profiles I've read of successful authors indicate that the prosperous writer does not wait until some momentous synaptic-rattling jolt of inspiration strikes from the sky. Quite the contrary seems to be the case. The process of writing is often described as an ritualistic practice of tedious trial and error, false starts, and humiliating frustration. It got me thinking about whether Shakespeare had a compulsary writing routine. Did Homer, Dante, or Proust sequester themselves in some kind of regimented writing routine? Did Sun Tzu cordon off special time in his ancient Chinese Day Runner so he could scribble a few scrolls of rice paper on The Art of War? I suppose it's possible that Sumerian scribes got up early each morning, had a cup of joe, and then carved out special time to sit in front of the ol' clay tablet until the sundial moved a certain number of degrees, just to make sure they could grind out at least a few lines of cuneiform each day.There is no question that man's ability to convey concepts and ideas to each other through complex languages preserved in pictures, symbols, and eventually, scripted language greatly contributed to the unique evolutionary development of human beings. It is what drastically differentiates us from lower animal orders. Archeologists and anthropologists have uncovered an amazing amount of information that was produced by ancient peoples, and these scholars believe that the earliest forms of communication, cave paintings, were not just decoration. They were representative of the transfer of important information and part of a ritualistic practice of some kind. So, here we are, back at ritualistic writing practices again.
I suppose writing does take take disciplined practice; hell, it is work. It had to have been quite a challenge for the ancients to develop alphabetical systems and methods of putting all those ideas down in perpetuity. When one looks at the work that it took to develop writing from scratch, today's authors have it easy—at least they don't need to undertake the monumental task of developing a way to capture language in order to share documented information with other humans. Most contemporary writers simply tap away on the ready-made symbols that decorate those little plastic keys on the computer.
Thinking about all this makes me realize how very little scholars actually know about the individuals who first revolutionized the way humans communicate or what kind of "writing methods" they used. Even within the Early Modern era this remains true. For example, although historians know a good deal about Shakespeare, there are still a lot of questions left unanswered about how and where he went about forming, drafting, and penning the prolific number of works that he produced. But I'll bet one thing's for sure: Shakespeare was no jungle spud.
I guess this means if I want to "bee" a successful writer, I'm going to have to shower, shave, and, of course, write on a routine basis.
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