What Do People Do?

Sitting across from me during a patio lunch, my friend—another writer—asked, “What do people do with their lives who don’t write?”

I could only shake my head.  “I have no idea,” I said.

And the truth is, I don’t.

It has occurred to me from time to time, long before the question was put to me so directly, that discovering what people actually do—or more precisely, what I could do with my life that’s not writing—could be a very useful exercise.

Except that I’ve never wanted to know.  Why mess with a working system?

Occasionally I have seen an obituary in The Author’s Guild Bulletin that says, “He was writing just hours before his death.”  And every time I think, Now that’s the way to go! 

It’s a different kind of dying to think about running out of stories while my body and mind are still here.

One beyond imagining.

Yet such a possibility moves closer.

I’ve been working on a young novella for months now, slowed by the weight of Covid, but working, nonetheless.  Steadily.  Daily.  I’ve been circling back and back and back, which is the way I usually write, adding layers, adding heft to what began as a light idea.  Deepening.  Clarifying.  And I have delighted, as I usually do also, in the words and ideas and characters sifting through my mind, finding their way through my fingers to the computer screen.

Experimenting.  Challenging.  Reaching into the darkness. Pulling back into the known, into the light.

It’s the way the process works, always has worked.  At least for me.

And then a few days ago I sat down at my desk, opened my well-worked, but not-yet-completed manuscript, and began to read in preparation for diving in again.

And

I

hated

it!

Hated everything about it.  My premise.  My characters.  My very words.

This hasn’t happened to me before.  Of course, some days my work feels like flying.  Some days I wade through sludge.  But to have the entire structure dissolve in front of my eyes before I could add a single word? 

Never.

I sat back, a bit breathless.  And then I turned to look at the day stretching before me.  An entire day.  Long and long and long. 

An entire life.  At least the remains of one.

Without work, what will I do with the hours?

There were a couple of other ideas floating around for possible picture books, but they were unformed.  I was overdue on a blog, but about what?  Nothing kindled the tiniest spark.  The point of energy that is the core of every piece of work was missing.  Entirely.

And a day stretched ahead of me.  Many days.  Without shape or content or purpose.

I walk every day, but after about an hour, this old body needs to sit down. 

I love cooking, but the remains of the lovely orange-spinach sauce khorshe I just made still waits in the refrigerator.  (My partner was in the Peace Core in Iran many years ago and loves Persian food.) 

I was part way into several different books, but none of them called.  I had as little energy for reading as for writing. 

I often have long conversations with friends, by phone or Zoom or over a lunch table, but none were planned. 

And while there is always cleaning that could be done, I would just about as soon beat myself as to spend the day cleaning my house.

So . . . I tumbled into research for one of those half-formed picture book ideas.  I spent a balmy day in my backyard gazebo—two days—reading and highlighting and taking notes and reading some more.

Research that, so far, has come to nothing.

And all the time, the question niggled at me.  “What do people do with their lives who don’t write?”

I am reminded again that it might be a truly useful thing to find out.

For the moment what I’m doing, as you can see, is writing about not writing.

The novel still waits.  Of course.  I keep expecting that whatever happened in my brain that turned it off can be undone. 

Either that or unlock the secret of other people’s lives.

There must be another way to live.

Right?