Been rewriting a novel which I’ve paced out, at least at present, to a three page or thousand-word-a-day fixer upper. As always, the most difficult part of the gig is actually sitting in the chair, which, given the generative part of my process, is a foreign notion. I tend to write opportunistically, on whatever device is at hand, straight into the cloud. I’ve been editing, however, from a printed draft that I’ve marked up and have to be physically near to move forward. It feels so, I don’t know, 20th century.
I’ve tried to station these sessions in the upstairs garret on a desktop machine rigged with a webcam and mic as an ersatz personal media studio to, you know, document the process, man. It works well enough, though not as well as the iPhone in my hand on which I’m writing this bit, lying on my bed amongst the laundry that needs folding.
To paraphrase the online Ancient Aliens Guy, “I’m not saying it’s procrastination but it’s procrastination.”
Fact is, making a routine of being in the same place at the same time to accomplish the same task with any regularity is proving difficult. Not for some failure of will, but for the simple reason that we’re on a mud ball hurtling through space such that we’re never in the same place twice.
Even if we were, we wouldn’t be the same people anyway, due to the constant cellular shifts we undergo between any given moments. This is how I rationalize the lack of progress of my “rewriting process” — it’s not my lack of work ethic but a conspiracy of physics and physiology.