{"id":55465,"date":"2012-06-09T06:06:20","date_gmt":"2012-06-09T10:06:20","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=55465"},"modified":"2015-07-02T06:43:56","modified_gmt":"2015-07-02T10:43:56","slug":"productivity","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=55465","title":{"rendered":"Productivity"},"content":{"rendered":"

I just read Mindy Kaling’s book Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns)<\/a>\"\"<\/i>. I absolutely love her and her book is hilarious. I didn’t just chuckle inwardly reading it. I found myself guffawing like a hyena on the bus. <\/p>\n

I always like to hear how other writers deal with the writing process. Writing can be so solitary. At the end of the day, it’s you and the blank piece of paper or the blank screen. And you have to create something<\/i> from NOTHING. You can certainly encourage good work habits in yourself. For example, you actually have to write. None of this “If I had the time I’d write a great novel\/screenplay” malarkey. Oh, so the reason F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote The Great Gatsby<\/i> is because … he had the TIME? (Do not ever say those words to me. You’ll thank me later.) <\/p>\n

And what Kaling describes here is something I have heard from other writers, and something I have experienced myself. And I give myself a head-trip about it every time<\/i>, even though I know that’s the process, and I know other writers experience this, too, and it’s normal, it’s normal, but still, I think: “GOD, Sheila, GET TO WORK.” The procrastination ritual becomes so elaborate when you are avoiding writing. Or, to put it more positively, when you are getting ready to start<\/i> writing. <\/p>\n

I have come up with ways that work for me that almost fake myself out. One, is going away for a weekend (or longer, if I can swing it). To a ratty motel, if possible. Example:<\/p>\n

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\nI get so much done in motels. And hotels, too. B&Bs, not so much. They’re too twee, too distracting. Give me an unadorned room, a bed, and instant coffee and I’m good. But you put me in a joint with a player piano in a parlor and crowded Victorian wallpaper and china knickknacks of busty shepherdesses and I get over-stimulated. If I were rich, I am sure I would also find a swanky hotel to be excellent in terms of getting down to work. But I would need something sleek and simply decorated – not too much going on. I am also best when I have one task: Edit this script this weekend. Re-write this scene. Write this book proposal. Edit these four essays. I am a Tasmanian devil when I have a stated goal. And put me with a stated goal into a ratty beach motel? Nothing can stop me. I used to put myself through head-trips about my need to “get away” in order to get work done. I would agonize: “Sheila, why can’t you just figure out a way to work better at home? You could save money, too!” But I turned a corner with that shit. This is the artistic process. Why should it make sense? The point is: you gotta get shit DONE. HOW it gets done is irrelevant. (Well, if I needed to take a hit off the crack pipe in order to get shit done, that might be a problem … but needing to be in unfamiliar surroundings in order to work? I can live with that. That’s harmless.) I also work well, strangely enough, in public. I get a lot of shit done in coffee houses where you are allowed to linger, and also dark Irish pubs on a Sunday afternoon. Those situations also stimulate productivity. <\/p>\n

At home, I am certainly productive. Hell, I write here every single day. Without any sturm-und-drang. But it’s these larger hypothetical projects, the great unknowns: screenplays, my book – the things knocking around in my head that do not exist yet – that for some reason my apartment inhibits me in. It’s too familiar, it’s too comfortable. I LIVE here. So I find myself reorganizing my bookshelves, and pulling furniture out from the walls to scrub the baseboards behind, or carefully lining up all of my earrings on my dresser. That’s when I know: Okay, Sheila, this can only go on for so long. Eventually, you have to sit down and write. It’s wonderful that you are scrubbing your crisper bin, it needed to be done, but you know what you are avoiding.<\/p>\n

But I love how Kaling puts it:<\/p>\n

The Internet also makes it extraordinarily difficult for me to focus. One small break to look up exactly how almond milk is made, and four hours later I’m reading about the Donner Party and texting all my friends: DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THE DONNER PARTY AND HOW MESSED UP THAT WAS? TEXT ME BACK SO WE CAN TALK ABOUT IT!<\/p>\n

I’ve found my productive-writing-to-screwing-around ratio to be one to seven. So, for every eight-hour day of writing, there is only one good productive hour of work being done. The other seven hours are preparing for writing: pacing around the house, collapsing cardboard boxes for recycling, reading the DVD extras pamphlet from the BBC Pride & Prejudice<\/i>, getting snacks lined up for writing, and YouTubing toddlers who learned the “Single Ladies” dance. I know. Isn’t that horrible? So, basically, writing this piece took me the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Enjoy it accordingly.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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