Writing Time

 There is never enough time to write. And I cannot write enough. No matter how efficient I am, or how many clones of myself I make, its not enough. It feels like there is something broken about the way I’m living.

What can we do to make more time for writing? I’ve compiled a short list of options for myself:

1. Cease caring. Literally anything is a story: Maalox, hamster bedding, UPS Socks, whatever.
   
2. Sleep less. ...Like, do-not-operate-heavy-cutlery less.
3. Quit my job for one that lets me write while working such as a nighttime security guard or a Senator.
4. Have sex with wealthy people.

The problem is that all of these will result in me sitting and staring into the distance a lot. I already do enough of that, so maybe the trick is to be more efficient, to write in spare moments. Yet, that seems to fragment my already scattered ideas. I’ll spend all my writing moments trying to recollect where I left off before the light turns green again.

Jobs are part of the problem. My middle school taught us about industrialization and labor suffrage and I can certainly sympathize now that I work nearly eight hours a day. There is something seriously wrong with waking up tired to go sit somewhere that lets me afford a place to go to sleep again. What is going on in this country? Bears must think we’re idiots! Look at this chart:

This says (in the most complicated way possible) that in five decades we’ve only managed to reduce our average workweek from 36.15 hours to 33.65. And this mostly thanks to computer, automation, and information, and dance revolutions. What did that earn us? Time for a nightly game show rerun?

(Two additional things here: First, the title made me think this was about something else. Especially when someone at The Economist curiously watermarked it with that inflatable weeble-wobble. In truth, if this is about men’s personal habits and not the workday, it may still hold true.

Second, is The Economist paying the person who writes their legend notes by the word? Because they chose to create a whole system for what would have been a lot clearer with a single extra digit.)

Where is time for writing, the time for the creative spirit? Is it lost in the little inefficiencies of life, like commuting or showering? Or is the writing of stories a luxury only for the rich, or those born without the need to sleep? Who is writing all these magazine articles? My guess: wealthy chatbots.

Questions about prioritizing writing is usually answered by the sound of everyone talking at once – a chorus of maxims and mantras. “Yes, certainly, oh and that’s a thought, and I hadn’t considered that.” As helpful as all those are, the advice on ‘time spent writing’ seems to be based on a flimsy tower of ideals.

In an ideal world, I could ideally write at least an hour day when nothing would interfere. Ideally I could generate ideas on the first try and not waste an hour in the grip of coulrophobia. I could type faster and substitute crank for sleep. Instead, I’m stuck inside this stupid human needing to eat, sleep, populate Alberta, and work enough to keep doing the former three.

Ultimately, the depressing realization is that our literature is more of a reflection of us than we intend. Compared to the past, our lives practically obstruct the creative process. Back then, one could spend weeks crossing the Atlantic just to investigate the evolution of horse buttocks on behalf of some eccentric Englishman. Now, we only have a few moments to record our parkour how-to segment before they kick you out of Subway.

Thus writing requires sacrifice. This is tragic; not only because of the reflection of our values of money over time. It is also tragic because of how this excludes people from adding to the narrative. I imagine how many people, without time to give, cannot tell a story which may enlighten, anger, arouse, or entertain. Where do their stories go?

Meanwhile, we are inundated by the prattle of those with too much time on their hands – those who I would disassociate from the human condition if not for the risk of disassociating myself. Still, the prattle certainly motivates. Even if that prattle takes up all the space in magazines and bookshelves and Google BrainFeed it makes me want to write something myself, to create something that someone says, “This is more palatable than re-reading that Cosmopolitan article again. Thanks.”

So despite the state of affairs, I will continue to seek more time, and will continue to make sacrifices to increase my time spent writing.

...All while keeping an eye on The Economist, ironic because most of their contributors are security guards. “I’m on to you, The Economist!”