In Which Writing Invades My Life

The worst, and maybe the best thing about being a writer are that ideas come from everywhere. They come from the things you do, the people you meet, that piece of gum lying on the sidewalk that sticks to your shoe. It seeps in from every direction and you never know when it might hit. That's the best thing, everything is inspiration.

And that's also the worst, EVERYTHING is inspiration.

Everything can be a short story, a novel, an article, a column, a blog post.

And as I'm sitting here writing this blog post, the idea of which appeared to me while brushing my teeth, I'm also trying to think of what I can write as my 1,000 (ish) word feature article for Back Stage. It's multiple neurosis firing at once and before you know it, the line between work and fun is blurred.

Every piece of entertainment I watch, every TV show can be reviewed. Theater, something that I love, is endlessly analyzed. When does it stop?

I was in a meeting with my Goldring advisor, Johanna Keller, who used to write for the New York Times. And I was telling her, "I'm not just interning at Back Stage, I also write for the Newshouse, freelance for CDInsight and keep my blog. And I'm just so tired all the time and I know that I'm investing in something but I don't know what I'm investing in."

And as I was sitting there telling her this, she looked at me, amused with just a hint of surprise. First, there was the natural question, "Do you feel stressed or just tired?" she asked.

Amazingly, "No," I said, "I'm just tired."

Then, the next thought, "Can you back off on any one thing?"

That didn't seem possible, especially because I had made it a goal to accumulate as much clips and readership this semester as possible. "I don't want to, I like doing them. It's sometimes, I just wish that...

"That there was 48 hours in a day?" she asked. This woman's soul was born from my own, here was a workaholic too. Though she seemed like she had more energy than I did, and never seemed to get cranky.

And she also had a head of white hair and glasses that always seemed to be precariously balanced on her nose. In short, she was my own Dumbledore (well, the Dumbledore before "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince"). Did that make me Harry Potter? Pressure, it is building.

"Then here's a suggestion." She leaned back. "Take a day and don't worry about writing. Go out to the park, read a book, just don't do any work."

And I sat there listening and thought, "Why haven't I thought of this before?" It was almost a revelation. Then I started thinking back, when was the last time I actually went out and not worried about writing? Two weeks? Three weeks? Sometime before I had taken the internship? So four weeks ago? Which makes it a month which...oh my god, writing is now my life.

Sometimes, you get so caught up in the day to day, and the long-term goals that you somehow become an automaton. It comes with a risk of being off-balance and perhaps even hating what you do because what is joy is now work.

And not having gone out, or worried about something other than words, in a month... The balance is off and something is wrong with the Force.

So, the next goal is to find a day and take a break. I think I have some time next weekend...