One of the special things about having a weekly column is that sometimes (most of the time) you sit down to write only to discover that nothing interesting has happened in the last week and you have no idea what to write. However, I have made a commitment and I am going to fulfill it, even at the risk of sounding trite or sentimental. Because I have no interest in discussing the elections or the referendum or parent/teacher interviews, I am going to instead write about how I write.
Some people in my life have no idea about how the writing process works, in general, and my own writing process, in particular. They may think that I watch people in a special sort of "writing" way and observe people in a way that is somehow magical. If only it was magic instead of boring ol' habit and perseverance. Maybe somewhere in the universe, there exists a magical cloak la Harry Potter that a person can wear to become a writer of books who never procrastinated.
I would buy that cloak.
The actual process of writing, or, at least, my writing process, is not magical. My week tends to go like this: spend every day leading up to my deadline thinking about what I should write and praying that something funny, interesting or exciting happens. When, as you may expect, nothing like that happens, I attempt to turn any one of the small joys, irritations or wishes into a story that I hope people would enjoy reading.
When it is "writing time," I make myself a cup of tea and wrap myself in a cozy blanket, escaping into my beautifully decorated writing/reading/dreaming room that overlooks an English-countryside pond where mother ducks perpetually swim with little ducklings trailing behind them. I open a blank document on my new laptop that weighs less than two pounds and breathe in the thoughts and breathe out words that come pouring out of my furiously-typing fingers.
Just kidding.
There is no dedicated "writing time" and my laptop is old, heavy and serviceable.
I do not have a proper desk and likely wouldn't know what to do with one if I had it.
I write on the couch, on the kitchen table and lying in bed. Sometimes I write in a coffee shop but if I am in public, I don't use a laptop because my laptop weighs far more than ten pounds. There is only my messy, busy life and pockets of time that are always uninterrupted and in between making lunches, cleaning up, helping with homework, laundry, working and yearning for a nap, sometimes, I type out a little story that I hope people enjoy.
If people don't enjoy reading my stories, I hope, at the very least, that it caused a momentary diversion from world events, politics and endless talking heads on television, radio (and even in print) about the legalization of cannabis in Canada. Enough already. Pot is legal now and it affects my life not at all. I would much rather buy a good night's sleep than a joint but maybe that's just me (I suspect it is not just me).
When I write, there is no magic. Sometimes there is tea and rarely are there ducks. What I do have is a great family, a fantastic community and just enough ego to think that people want to read the things I write. Maybe it is magic.
Maybe it is the ducks.
Maybe it is somewhere in between.
