Michael Gravel Edmonton Writer

Priorities

Kerry and I have declared this coming weekend the first of many “sacred writing” weekends. It’s “sacred” because we view writing as a sacred act. And if you believe that one, here’s another one: We have kept the weekend free of social commitments and chores. We’ve bounced a few invitations and called everything off. We have fuck all on the calendar. Foil for windows has been purchased. Confederate flags superimposed with giant pot leaves have been draped. Super-strong espresso has been ordered and is on its way from Columbia (I’m at my most creative between 10:30pm and 1am – what about you?). This is the first in a regular series of weekends designed to ensure that we have 48 complete and uninterrupted hours set aside for nothing but writing.

It seems strange and almost too obvious to actually declare this intent and set aside time like this, but with a hectic social sked and ever-present family concerns, it’s necessary. The toil of day-to-day living conspires to – and does occasionally – keep creative impulses in the shitter. This weekend, however, there will be no answering of phones, no shopping, no cleaning, no surfing YouTube and Digg, no masturbating under the wide, happy sun, no cleaning the garage, no blending of Mai-Tais, no washing of clothing, no lollygagging in my red union suit underwear, no killing of small mammals, and, perhaps most provocatively, no showering. Sit down, shut up, and write. In a broader sense, with regards to the writing game in general, shit or get off the pot, or write or fuck off.

Deadlines

I’m a firm believer in the power of deadlines. The world is structured around deadlines. That’s how things get done. I also think that writing should happen in and around one’s life. Would the ideal truly be to have an endless amount of time to write? That thought might go something like this: “Man, if I had a year off and I was in Honduras, I could totally write my novel.” If you want to write a novel, having the time to write it might not be for the best. Crunching it out between laundry, parenting, and grocery shopping just may yield a better manuscript (according to my completely unprovable, unsupportable theory). I think of my good pal Thomas Trofimuk, a literary giant who can hack out 10000 words in a heartbeat. In between taking his kid to school, fixing the deck roof, home renovations, being a good husband, and working part time for the Government, this guy cranks out quality work. He’s a fucking machine (you know what I mean). How does he do it, and where can I score some of those writer pills? Certainly his missus props him up a bit. One can’t do it all, and having a loving, enabling partner at home truly makes all the difference. Beyond that, doesn’t it make sense to write while you’re in your life? I’ve dreamed of going to Greece to write my novel, and it’s a lovely fantasy, but would it be real? My life is here, not on the pebble beaches of Santorini.

I’ve learned that in order to truly get anything done, I need something to push against – a deadline, house duties, submission date, whatever. Without an obstacle, nothing gets done. If you want 100 words, give me a month. Want a thousand? Give me an hour. None of this is to say that serious, uninterrupted writing and editing time isn’t required. Of course it is. Everyone works in different ways. For me, 48 hours is about the perfect length of uninterrupted time. I plan to spend the weekend holed up in my office, Springsteen on the deck, Neruda close at hand. I have the feeling it’ll be one of those weekends wherein eating is a distraction and going to the bathroom is an inconvenience. I’ll be around, but please don’t call.

Entry #53 · October 16, 2007 in