Listen to me read the below here:
Anytime I express the old singsong of productivity anxiety, I’m usually reminded by friends and family that I’m the same person who had the gumption, drive, and persistence to have written and published The Border of Paradise–to which my immediate response is to say (or at least to think, privately, in my Private Thoughts) that I wrote my debut novel when I was reasonably healthy, and I’m not healthy anymore. It doesn’t take away from my pride in Border, but it does fill me with fear about whether or not I’ll be able to write another book, let alone a better one.
I’ve written in this Journal before about what my writing life was like before I got sick–pressured, coffee-and-booze-filled, and unhealthy–and in the last month, once I began to commit myself to beginning a new book, I’ve found myself needing to create my process from scratch. Most days, I can’t write for more than thirty minutes; on a good day, I’ve got an hour at best before my body and brain begin to fade. I had C move my desktop computer, a gift to myself and a former point of pride in my office, to a nook in the living room because it’s been too hard to sit upright at a desk. I’m happy that he’s able to take over use of what was formerly “my” computer, but these limits and boundaries are frustrating, and I resent them. On my worst days, I want to give up altogether.
In the end, though, that’s not who I am. While fighting despair is an ongoing struggle, I’m also a highly stubborn individual, and so I’ve been experimenting with workarounds. To do so, I’ve been looking at my challenges and needs element by element, figuring out alternatives, and practicing in order to become more adroit with whatever strategy I’ve devised.
An example: I often can’t sit upright, which makes using a desktop or laptop exhausting and unsustainable, if not impossible. What I do have is an iPhone, though, and the Drafts 4 app. I’m currently writing this while lying on my side in bed, tapping the words out with my index finger, because the iPhone 6 is light enough to hold with my other hand. All of this is still draining, but the drain on my resources is a slow drip rather than a tap turned on high. I can’t write for hours, either, so I write until I sense my body’s weakness encroaching on my edges, and then I stop.
I’ve also become more accustomed to breaking up my work. Instead of writing a 1500-word essay draft in one or two big sessions, I end up writing a paragraph per day, or a few paragraphs with time in between; if I’m feeling especially tops on any particular day, I’m still happy to write as much as I can. The other day, I wrote 1000 words in one setting and almost threw a party for myself. It would have been a very small, sedate party, but I’m happy to take what I can. If developing a chronic illness has taught me anything, it’s been the sandwich board of TERRORIZE THE PLANET WITH MY GENIUS* and I’LL TAKE WHAT I CAN.
*A paraphrase of something my friend Mensah Demary once tweeted.