Sit down and write!

I believe a dose of Methylphenidate might get me off the dime.

You know, Ritalin.  Stimulant.  Schedule II controlled substance.

Yes – Ritalin treats attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) and, counterintuitively, narcolepsy.

Those are precisely my symptoms:  I fluctuate between flitting about cheerfully dusting knickknacks and deep snoring sleep.

And I’ve built up a tolerance to Starbucks.  Desperate times.

I have a job to do, yet in spite of my good will and determination, I ping pong between distraction, an inexplicable urge to rearrange furniture and the powerful draw of that sunny spot on the comforter next to the cat.

Euphemistically, I linger in the pre-writing stage. 

 Pre-writing is that stage of writing we scribes sometimes love because it adds to our mystery.  Here’s the beauty of it:  When you’re an enigma, you don’t have to answer pragmatic questions like, “What are you doing in there?”


I am at the keyboard in my enchanted place, here in my study with my special stuff all around me:  My crystal ball; this molded glass head full of black and butter and kidney beans; the electric piano that I can still barely play; a light-up globe with a broken switch; a black-and-white photo of my brother and me, ages five and three, on our dad’s Harley-Davidson. 

This is my happy place.  Here convene the elements of alchemy.

After all, writing is magic, right?  One minute writers behave within the parameters of normalcy.  We go to lunch.  We converse, make eye contact.  We listen and respond.  We turn a phrase and keep the banter lively.

Next minute we are seized with inspiration, jump up, run to the computer and gush, like Old Faithful.  Or we speak furtively into our cell phone recorders or snag the proverbial napkin and dash off our pithy insights – the seeds of the next screenplay, the lynchpin of the story arc.

Either that or our eyes glaze over as we make a mental note and then sit later, in the quiet of the night, bleary-eyed in front of a glowing screen trying to call that pearl back to consciousness.

We love it when non-writers express wonder at what we do.  No need to dispel that misapprehension!  They don’t know that we marvel too.  More accurately, we don’t know what the heck we’re doing, much less how we go about doing it.  We wonder too – if we will ever actually get a word on the page.

Or, like Hemingway, we dismiss the act sardonically:  “Writing is easy.  All you do is sit at the typewriter and bleed.”

Oh, we love the drama!

We love the precariousness of it.  The fear.  The teetering on a tightrope suspended high above solid ground. 

Nobody asks anybody why he doesn’t write!  So you would think, when one is stuck in the mystical, infuriating prewriting phase, that person could simply stand up, correct her posture, and say, “Balderdash!” with some satisfaction before turning her attention to…what?  Anything she wants!  Anything else!  Bookkeeping, let’s say.  Or archeology.

But writers cannot quit:  They know the mandate – a writer can’t not write.   Even when suspended in the air.

So yes.  Here we are – prewriting.

The prewriting stage encompasses key features of a writing project including, but not limited to choosing your topic, identifying your audience and purpose, brainstorming ideas, organizing information, sorting laundry, solving murders with Lt. Joe Kenda, communing with your cat, staring into the ether and look!  An osprey over the water! 

You know, doing almost anything but pecking out sentences on the screen.

And I’ve outgrown caffeine – the gateway drug. 

I considered drinking.  I wouldn’t be the first writer to slosh along for a good while.  Alcohol would facilitate the napping.  So there’s that.

But I think you need to be a Dorothy Parker – really good and well established – to get away with it.  Someone like me could find herself inebriated and alone at the Algonquin.

That’s no good.

So yes, if I can find an unscrupulous doctor, I think I’ll try Ritalin.  That’s what it’s come to.

My topic?  Well!  If you have to ask!  My audience??  Apologies, Dear Reader.  It’s all for you.

Purpose?  There’s the rub. 


And look!  A cloud shaped like a penguin!

How to write a newspaper column

 Having never timed how long it takes to write one of these columns, I cannot say for sure. 

Generally, I write each one over a couple of days.  Three if you count the first day of thrashing about, gnashing teeth, pacing, procrastinating, punching pillows and the like. 

That’s how I get my ideas.

Second day I commune with the blank screen.  Sometimes, I ‘free write.’  That means I allow my mind to meander and my Spirit Guide Ethel to direct my fingers on the keys. 

Ethel’s quite a character.  A prankster really.  She goes on and on about ‘the other side’ and how Will Rogers and Nora Ephron never need any prodding.  They let it flow and write volumes!  Well, you know.

Then, third day, I’m like the Mighty Casey after strikes one and two:  the sneer is gone from my arrogant lip; my teeth are clenched in hate.  I pound with cruel violence the keys upon … OK.  I can’t make it rhyme right now.  That’s part of the problem. 

Also, there’s no pitcher winding up and ready to throw.  But now that I think of it, this is a good thing.  We don’t want to end up with a big ‘K,’ now do we?

So today, day three, I sit at my computer and call the Social SecurityAdministration first thing. 

I’ll get this little detail out of the way before I write.  It won’t be niggling in the back of my mind like a hole in the roof where the rain gets in and stops my mind from wandering where it will go.

Oops. 

I’m new to all this government assistance, but I’m no dummy.  After receiving two letters that said I would be paying either 1) $272 or 2) $167 to supplement Medicare, I would rather pay one of those than the amount on this newly received Statement of Premium Due - $981.

Here’s the plan then:  Call and speak to a customer service rep, Asia, who is 1) alone on her first day because her trainer ran screaming into oncoming traffic, or 2) a thoroughly unpleasant person who knows only what the screen says - $981 – period. 

When I asked to speak to her supervisor, Asia put me on hold without comment.  Fine!  said I.  I’ll write while I wait!  Ha ha!

I had already waited 35 minutes for the Social Security Administration to return my initial call.  No worries!  Now, in the After Asia era, another 42 minutes pass and from the receiver set on “speaker” next to my keyboard, interspersed with some sort of clanging, a pleasant male voice intones:

Thank you for holding.  Someone will assist you shortly.  Please be sure to have your SSN and any mail we may have sent you.  This will help us serve you better in the unlikely event we stop this infuriatingly lurid 70’s psychedelic “music” and take your call.

Then – We regret that you have waited so long.  The Social Security Administration provides services for over 50 million people so we get a little backed up, particularly on a day like today when you have called with your paltry concern.

Thank you for holding.  We appreciate your patience.  We are helping someone else who’s really, really long-winded.  I mean yadda yadda yadda!  Get to the point, wouldja?!  YOU won’t be like this guy, will you?

We apologize for this delay.  Here’s an idea:  Why don’t you go to our website and leave us alone?  Maybe you can answer your own stupid questions from the comfort of your home.  We’re here in cubicles like so many eggs in crates, and it’s hard to muster much interest.  We can’t see into the future except to say that it’s looking pretty dim for you and your query. 

In fact, why don’t you just shut up and pay the bill?  So what if it’s three times more than our letter said it would be?  It’s worth it, wouldn’t you say?  Better than this purgatory! 

If we had known you were such hairsplitter, we would have taken you off the mailing list altogether.  Of course, we would have stopped your coverage too. 

Click, click – Please stay on the line for our customer satisfaction survey.


And that’s how columns are written.