“It is good to be without vices, but it
is not good to be without temptation.”
   - Walter Bagehot

I seem to be having trouble today with my attention span. It’s hard staying focused on a single activity for more than a few moments. Right now, even as I make these words on the page, I am edgy, thinking about the books on the shelves behind me, on the papers covering my desk, on whether or not I should light some incense, on whether I need more light in the room as I write, and even on whether there will be enough ink in my pen to finish out this thought. It’s taking every bit of nerve and grit I possess to not stop writing and go off to do something else.

This is the “monkey mind” at work—the unfocused, unstructured array of undifferentiated thoughts, coming across my consciousness, reminding me of everything other than the task at hand. It feels like temptation. It probably manifests itself as sin. There is no going into “flow” when the monkey mind is at work—there is only the constant craving for something new and different. It’s the same thing that fuels the desire to shop. I want a new thing, a better thing than I now have, a thing that will make me forget how dreadfully inept I am at what I’m trying to do.

Other writers must go through this—some more than others, but the thought must rise on occasion. 

Nobody talks about it, though. It’s like a dirty little secret we keep to ourselves, fearful that if we admit to it, our membership in the writing society will be revoked.

Excuse me. I have a pressing need to go do something else.

R.B.

"Whoever said we have only two beings
wrestling within has greatly underestimated
the number by a considerable amount."
    - Goethe

I don't underestimate how many beings are wrestling within me--the number is currently hovering somewhere between fifteen and twenty. This seems to be the maximum number of sentient beings I can sustain at any one time in my life, without becoming the crazy old coot you avert your gaze from while strolling through parks and public places. I generally try to limit my conversations with them to the privacy of my home, with only occasional slips before my family and a few trusted friends. These are people who are not likely to report me to the men in white coats when they observe me staring incredulously at "middle distance," carrying on heated debate with invisible combatants, or reaching out to touch somebody who obviously doesn't exist in the same dimension as I do.

Who are these creatures, and why are they taking up residence in my head, you ask?

They're the characters who populate my stories. As I've gotten better at writing them, they've gotten better (and more persistent) at sticking around after the story is finished, insisting I engage in meaningful dialogue with them, providing them with more insight than they were originally intended to have, and giving them more exposure than the mere few thousand words they are generally allocated in a single story.

I never minded giving these phantasms what they wanted, until Finch showed up. I needed a really nasty, totally unsympathetic villain for a story I wanted to write, and I conjured up Finch. He's rotten, through and through. He beat his wife, tormented his children, whored around, thumbed his nose at society, lied, cheated, and stole at every opportunity. Worst of all, though, Finch was thrilled to be a telemarketer. He made my skin crawl as I wrote him -- the way he acted, the things he said, the things he did -- he was completely repulsive. People who have read the story about Finch unanimously agree. He's horrible.

And now, he won't go away. He hovers at the edge of my consciousness like some demon waiting to show me the path to perdition, and more and more, I find myself oddly unable to ignore him. Finch has the ethics of a hyena, and the instincts of a salt water crocodile. He didn't survive the story I put him in, but he somehow managed to resist my attempts to purge him from my thoughts. I've even found myself welcoming telemarketing calls, just to see if the person on the other end of the line is as coolly calculating as Finch.

I'm interested in Finch, but at the same time, I fear his influence over me.

Excuse me. My telephone is ringing. It might be a cold call.

R.B.

"A man who is always ready to believe what
is told to him will never do well."
     - Gaius Petronius

I like living in the twenty-first century, with all the conveniences, labor-saving devices, and astonishing breakthroughs in technology and science. I'm a real fan of progress. I was first on my block to own an answering machine, a personal computer, a cell phone, a wireless PDA. Instant messaging rings my chimes. Really. I'm about as far from Luddite as Buck Rogers was from the Hubble Telescope. With one glaring exception. Automated telephone menus are the devil's own handiwork. I can't stand them. Let me explain.

I've just spent the past several hours trying to navigate a pen maker's automated menu. I have a pen the company stopped manufacturing about fifteen years ago. I am extremely fond of this pen. When I hold it, it feels like it's part of my hand. The pen can be fixed. I need a replacement part. I know how to make the repair. I am willing to pay good money to get what I need. I called the pen maker, sure this was going to be a simple, painless transaction. I was dead wrong.

At every turn, the pen maker's automated menu offered me choices, none of which got me close to a human being, or a replacement part for my pen.

When my digital enemy answered, it spoke to me in a pleasant enough woman's voice. "Welcome. This is the XYZ Pen Company. You are a valued customer. Please listen to the following to help us serve you better..." This is where the fun began. The menu options were laid out, but not one of them involved pen repair or replacement parts. The closest match was "Customer Relations," so I pressed "2."

The woman's voice, now less friendly, stated, "If this is a medical emergency, please hold the line, and a representative will be with you shortly. If you are calling about our premiere product line, press one. If you are calling about other products, press two. If you need to speak to a customer relations representative, press three."

My index finger hovered over the keypad as I considered the instructions. Since when do people calling pen makers for replacement parts find themselves in medical emergencies? And wouldn't somebody in a medical emergency be better off calling the hospital, before the pen maker? I pressed "3."

The sibilant, mechanical female voice spoke again. This time, she was terse and to the point. "All our customer relations representatives are answering other customer calls at this time. We do not know when a representative will be free to answer your call. There is no point in waiting. If you really feel the need to leave a message, please press one at the tone, and leave your name and number. Somebody will eventually get back to you." I pressed "1" and waited. And waited. When I finally tired of waiting for something to happen, I hung up. Did I mention this was not a toll-free number?

I figured there was a glitch in the system, so I decided to try again. Nobody has ever accused me of being a quitter. I called the pen maker eight times and went through the exact same series of events each time. Naturally, I invariably reached the same unsatisfying conclusion.

On my ninth and final attempt, I tried something different. Right at the start of the litany of call options, I pressed "0" and held my breath. I hoped I would bypass the menu and be switched directly to an operator. My only goal was to reach a human being who could answer my questions, take my credit card information, and ship me a new part.

The gambit was a success. I heard a faint clicking, a hum, and then a sweet, tentative, "Hello? May I help you?" coming from the other end of the line. I explained my problem to the soft-voiced, solicitous young woman. She said, "Oh, of course. You need a new part. Just let me connect you to a customer relations representative." Before I could stop her, I was switched away, and I heard the now-dreaded, "All our customer relations representatives are answering other customer calls at this time..."

I hung up, cursing the pen maker and the automated menu to eternal perdition.

Excuse me. I'm leaving now. I have to drive to the office supply store for a new pen.

R.B.

"A man of genius makes no mistakes.  His
errors are volitional and are the portals of
discovery."
  - J. Joyce

I read the most interesting thing about journal writing recently. Virginia Woolf was commenting on how Ottoline Morrell kept a journal, but allowed as to how the journal was vastly different from her own, filled up as it was with Ottoline's writing about her inner life. The thought of this made Woolf stop and consider that when she got right down to it, she had no inner life herself. However, Woolf's diaries are filled to bursting with her observations of the world around her -- nothing escaped her keen artist's eye. She never skimped or flinched when laying out the patterns of social engagements, the people around her, or her travels through towns and countries. She treated a walk through Kensignton Gardens as seriously and with quite as much thoughtful attention to detail as she did an enormous dinner party in fancy dress, or a reception with a crowned head of state.

But the only places where we find inner life, if we can call it that, are when we read the stories she wrote. She projected everything she didn't find in herself, but found in others, onto her pages.

I think this is something every writer, every writer who's going to make it as a writer, that is, comes to terms with. There isn't nearly enough good fiction in the world, and part of the reason why is because we've been training our writers to look inward, rather than outward, and rewarding them accordingly. It's as if we have forgotten how to look at our heroes and villains and render them accurately with words. We've forgotten, too, how important it is when we create those characters to exaggerate the lines, extend the reach, endow them with the qualities and characteristics we want to find in ourselves.

Excuse me. I have a sudden desire to peer into a mirror.

R.B.

"Life is real!  Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal: ..."
     - H.W. Longfellow

I've been thinking about one of my dear friends. She and I recently had a conversation over coffee during which she groaned about her position, one that I had myself occupied several years ago. She has incentive options from her company, and she's praying for an IPO before she's burned to a crisp. She's been dealing with hundred-hour work weeks, sunrise to well past midnight most days, trying to make the IPO happen so she can cash in and go off to have the collapse she feels she earned. Now she says she's debating whether it's worthwhile for her to remain with the company, with the downturn in the general economy.

I asked, "What is it you want from a job?" She told me what she likes most is when she's allowed to "build something." She loves being able to bring people together in a team, but what excites her most is the potential for success. She said her ennui in a job begins to surface after the team moves into a performant state, and she itches for something new. She also said she no longer reports to the company founder, who recruited her.

There is a new vice-president on her horizon, who has half the company reporting to him. My friend commented that this new executive has introduced an unhealthy competitiveness into the company, pitting people against one another, rather than helping them team together. The executive has even made his presence known in the intramural volleyball league, a group that has been meeting for over a year for friendly fun after work. The new guy has so negatively affected the atmosphere, and ruined the sense of fun, that nobody enjoys the games, and actively look for reasons to not participate.

Her concern is that this executive brings a really cut-throat attitude into the company, a sort of "win at all costs" mentality. Her feelings toward this man are not good, because she's mistrustful of his motives and ethics. She says when things go wrong, he goes hunting for people to blame, and when things go right, he takes all the credit. She says her stomach hurts when she thinks about working with him, and accepting direction from him.

I think she needs to do is figure out why she's willing to remain. If it's because there is an enormous financial gain for her, then wonderful. If it's because she's getting extremely valuable career experience, wonderful. If it's because she wants to outlast a strong-willed predatory executive, terrible.

We drank our coffee, commiserated a bit, and in the end, I told her I hoped she'd be able to make a decision she can not only live with, but one that won't jeopardize her health, mental or physical. She thanked me for the advice, and then it was time to go. Nothing changed.

Excuse me. I need to find myself another cup of coffee.

R.B.

"Spring is sprung, the grass is riz... I wonder where the birdies iz?"

    - anonymous

According to that esteemed Missourian, Thomas Stearns Eliot, April is the cruelest month. I believe him.

I decided to take the long way to and from the Library today, given I've been cooped up in the house for the last three days, trying to meet a writing deadline. And yes, there are projects in my queue other than meeting the daily dosage for this blog. The sun was sort of shining, and while it's not warm enough for short sleeves yet, at least I didn't have to wear a winter coat to bear the walk from the house to the car in the driveway. I piled all my overdue books into my trust black bag, donned a jacket, and off I went, hoping I'd get a glimpse of the neighborhood rousing itself from the winter doldrums, readying for flowers and the smell of fresh-mown grass.

Boy, was I ever in the wrong place mentally. Simply stated, the town's a mess.

Left-over sand from the snow trucks lined the gutters and driveways, making the streets unsafe for skaters, bicyclists, and motorcycles (not that there were any of these around, but if they'd been out, it would have been skinned knees and elbows for the lot of them).

The grass hasn't really begun growing yet, so the lawns all look sickly and jaundiced, with bare, sunken patches of dirt and leaves dotting the landscape. Not a flower to be seen anywhere, even though we got crocuses and jonquills this week. It all looked nasty, old, and grubby.

The roads are also chock full of ruts, frost heaves, and pot holes. So much so, that motorists weave in and out of traffic lines like drunken sailors on shore leave, trying to evade the deeper holes, causing consternation among the many nannies and au pairs out parading their employers' little darlings along the sidewalks in strollers. I'm sure it's hard for them to tell at a glance whether the two-ton SUV aimed at the pram will actually swerve back toward the street before it reaches them. My nerves were shot by the time I reached the Library, and I wasn't even walking.

The place was jam-packed with men, women, and teenagers all seeking something -- escape from terminal boredom? Information? Truth? I couldn't tell, because nobody was talking as they scanned the volumes, peering anxiously around to see if they'd lost the chance to borrow something entertaining, or interesting. I dallied a bit, not too keen on getting back out into the traffic right away.

Standing in line at the check-out desk, I overheard a little boy who had obviously been unimpressed with his outing to the Library ask his mother, "Can we get out of this place?" His mother asked if he'd like to wait for her outside the front door. He answered, "I'm not going out there anymore -- this whole town is yucky, Mommy! Can we move?"

She still hadn't answered his question by the time I left. But he was definitely on to something, and he was absolutely right, too. This whole town is yucky.

Excuse me. I think I need to call my mother.

R.B.

"If I didn't have writing, I'd be running down the street hurling grenades in people's faces."

   -Paul Fussell

I don't feel particularly entertaining or witty at this moment, so what I want to write about is how writers who sit and wait for divine inspiration often end up not writing anything at all, while at the far other end of the spectrum are those who madly dash off words as quickly as they think them up, regardless of a musely sanctioning. These latter are a curious bunch, cutting a wide swath with their pens, ravaging the literary landscape with debris. These are the people who believe it is somebody else's job to clean it up, make it readable, make it saleable.

The rest of us have to pick gingerly through this junk as we seek out readers, agents, editors, and publishers for our own work. I do feel sorry for the agents and editors who are sitting buried under the fat piles of badly conceived, poorly executed prose and poetry.

Don't get me wrong -- the sparkle and dazzle of an inspirational flash is something perfectly wonderful. However, those who have the habit of referring to themselves as "idea" people rather than "detail" people might be better advised to find other lines of work. Writers who don't finish what they start, don't polish what they finish, aren't actually writers. The divide between the poet and the poetaster is deep and wide, and there is a good reason why more than 90% of the writers who submit stories receive regular rejection. Real writers know that once the inspirational flash finishes, the work actually begins.

I know a woman who considers herself a fine poet. She feels she's in constant communion with her personal, private muse. She never goes anywhere without a pen and pad for jotting down her ideas and inspirations. The little note pads are filled with images, shards of her creative consciousness, which she later breaks apart into lines she labels "poetry," even though there is no reflection or reworking brought to bear against the raw words and phrases. She never really finishes anything she writes, nor does she ever submit her work anywhere, and as a result is unpublished, except for classroom chapbooks.

This same woman has often told me she expects her work will be "discovered" after her death, and she fully believes she'll be the "Grandma Moses" of poetry one day. She feels that all she needs is some person to "organize" her poetry, making it palatable to the public taste. Maybe so, but I don't want to bet my bottom dollar on it.

I think Fortune does favor those writers who are willing to do the work, pay the dues, and through dint of mindful effort, make the world sit up and take notice of them.

Excuse me. I hear my Muse calling. I'm sure the charges are collect.

R.B.