No Distractions, Please: On Getting into the Writing Zone

Earlier this month we had a visit from our neighbors Craig and Glenda, who could conceivably be our grandparents. "Y'all have been here how long, two years?" asked Craig. We told him it had been eight years. It was their first visit since we'd moved in next door. 

They stopped by because they wanted to see our new horses. Their comfort with horses was evidenced by the way Glenda wrapped her arm around Tess's neck like Tess was Glenda's twin sister and they'd been doing it that way for 85 years. C&G told stories about raising horses, including a particularly horrifying tale about a young horse who snapped her neck after getting it stuck in a fence.

"I heard you write poetry," I said, nodding to Craig. (I was the only nonhorseperson there, and I'd patiently listened to my fill of stories.) Craig shifted his weight, which seemed to be the cue for him to adopt an entirely different personality: one in which he was a sort of starving artist. 

"I drive up to a cabin on top of Mount Brown," he explained. "It's not really a mountain. It's more of a hill. But we call it a mountain up in those parts." And so on. He described how remote the cabin was, and how he needed those 300 miles away from Glenda and no television in order to write his poetry. 

"I totally get it," I said to Craig. Then I gave Erica a satisfied smile.

I don't have a cabin in North Georgia. At least not yet. What I do when I write is wear a pair of manufacturing floor quality soundproof ear-muffs--slightly heavier duty than you would find at a shooting range. The silence they provide helps me find that mountain vista, and once I've found it, they help me linger there. 

The headphones aren't always enough. Sometimes I have to grab my things and go to the other side of the house--from our bedroom to our living room to (weather permitting) the picnic table near the vegetable beds. The quiet and seclusion amounts to my own private square mile of forest with hibernating black bears, only with the convenience of plumbing and refrigeration nearby. My hope is that, at the very least, the headphones will signify a sort of commitment to writing or working on my computer, but they often signify to Erica that she had better speak extra loud in order to get my attention.

It isn't that she's trying to annoy or distract me. She just sees me there and suddenly remembers to remind me about that one branch that's hanging over the koi pond. That's when I'm flooded with inner conflict--namely, frustration at being distracted grinding against the general desire to keep our marriage a mutually respectful and satisfying one.

I don't know how to communicate the impact of distraction on nonwriters. Say I'm painting the ceiling and Erica pops her head in the door and asks if I've had a chance to jot down what I need from the grocery. I can pause for a second, remember if I had or hadn't, then give her an answer. The consequence of this pause can be measured in dryness of paint on the roller. That's all. Pausing while mowing the lawn means I'll have to pull the ripcord again. But with writing it's different.

For years I've tried to come up with a metaphor for being distracted while writing, and I think I've finally got it: it's like throwing a pebble at the feet of someone who's trying to catch fish with their bare hands. Writing can be like that sometimes--like trying to catch a slippery fish with your bare hands. The water is already distorting, but after a while, I imagine, the fisherperson has accommodated to the rhythms and movements of the water enough to see fish and turtles and frogs as they pass by beneath the surface. Then, "Kerplop!" Ripples go in every direction and the fisherperson must stare absently at their ankles for another few minutes until the sand on the river's floor has settled and they have again accommodated to the underwater rhythms.

All I'm talking about is a tiny pebble. Not a boulder or a rock or a barracuda or anything like that. I would hardly notice a pebble if it hit me on the side of the head. But thrown into the water at my feet, and I might as well climb out of the river and make a sandwich. Once you wade back to the fishing spot, I'll have to wait until the water is clear enough to give it another go.

That's what it's like for me, anyway. At least sometimes. I've got the faint outline of a connection I'm trying to make--a connection that has taken maybe five minutes to reveal itself. Then, "Kerplop!" and the connection is gone. I don't even remember what was being connected to what. That's how tenuous it is. I have to start over, which sometimes means a second connection (the first one lost forever). 

Other times I am immune to disruption. The dog could vomit on my feet and I would continue writing unfazed. Or Erica could get bit by a snake and I drive her to the hospital while the idea remains steadfast as if engraved in steel. Perhaps the latter ideas are the good ones and the former the bad ones, but in the final analysis it's the ideas I don't ever remember having that make me smile when reading them later. That cabin is looking awfully good, Craig.