Up in the finished part of our attic in a little wooden bookshelf against the wall, there are a whole bunch of books about writing. Books about journalism and essay writing; books about famous writers and their process, which - I noted when I first got it - included an alarming number of cocktail mentions; the drinks poured before famous writers began putting words to the page.

I don’t adhere to this practice except for the memorable time when I had one last paper to write in order to complete my English degree at Boston University during my senior year. All my other friends were done for the semester…done with undergrad entirely and out having fun. Annoyed, I pulled out the cardboard box of random bottles we reserved for parties in our little apartment. At that point it included mostly cordials and fruit-flavored brandies we’d purchased when we were trying to be “fancy” and I made myself a disgusting drink based on my best instincts, which were flawed, trust me. I was 22, after all. I drank it though! Drank it and finished my paper. The drink didn’t help - I mean, it hindered my writing if anything - but it made me feel a little better regarding such a sad state of affairs.

My lack of a “process” when I write has never bothered me, but I’ve been thinking about it lately.

First of all, I’ve noticed a lot of the successful writers I follow online making statements about how it’s “difficult to write right now.” This is, it goes without saying, is a privileged statement. Like, I’m sure it’s also very difficult to be a doctor, nurse, mailman, hospital janitor or grocery store worker right now, just to name a few (I know you guys get it - I realize how lucky I am. But I still can’t help stating it).

Anyway, regarding writing being difficult: I agree, although I think these writers are trying to communicate something deeper than what I’m experiencing. That writing is difficult right now because the world feels so uncertain. That it’s difficult because normal subjects seem so insignificant compared with, you know, the pandemic. So do we write about that and that only? Do we stop writing about that because enough is enough?

(It turns out that I just keep writing about it, which answers that question for me personally).

While I can identify with these issues, my main issue, actually, is far less romantic. I feel is that it’s difficult to write currently because there are children talking to me every 5-10 minutes, even when I’ve sequestered myself up in the attic with my desk and the books about writing and my corkboard of quotes and photographs. Even then, they will perch at the bottom of the stairs and say, “Mommy? Where are my shoes?” And they will repeat it as I try to type and retype a sentence, then finally admit failure and scream, “I DON’T KNOW PROBABLY WHERE THE SHOES ARE?”

Even my wonderful scientist husband, who is working at home for part of his days, will come find me - my fingers poised about the keyboard - and launch into some exciting monologue about an experiment that yielded some “interesting results!” Then - he’s not done - he tells me about those results while I’m looking at him, so genuinely happy to witness that level of enthusiasm for one’s profession, and so excited, more generally, that scientists exist right now. Yet the sentence before me remains unfinished.

This kind of writing - the kind I do on this blog, which doesn’t necessarily follow traditional rules - is a little easier. It’s always been that way. It’s just for me. And you. For me and you.

But just trying to write one mere email that someone else is going to read and needs to be composed in coherent, grammatically-correct English is challenging when people are telling you important details about their life (usually: not super important it turns out).

So writing has been hard because doing anything all the way through is hard right now, and writing does require a certain amount of concentration. At least for me, it requires a type of concentration that other productive activities I might take on, like a meeting or phone conversation, don’t.

Also (I hesitate to get all philosophical on you, but if not now, when?) there is another thing I’ve been thinking about during this strange period when I think about writing, especially the kind I do.

Why?

Why do I write what I do? To what end? What’s next? I’ve always written to connect with people, I think, and because I can’t not do it. Sometimes I’m exercising or making lunch and the sentences just start forming in my head. I want them out so badly it almost hurts (this sounds pretentious, I realize, and also ridiculous, considering the writing I do is fairly casual, but it’s the truth!)

Is this a good enough reason, though?

I’m sure that one cause of this negative bout of thinking is because some of my work has died down and I’m concerned. In the short term, I’m worried that it won’t come back. In the longer term I’m wondering what my plan is. This has always been something I’ve worried about. As I mentioned in another post recently, I very much feel my “non-essential” label right now.

The combination of constant interruptions, lack of work and infrequent face to face time with people - which is how I’ve always connected most meaningfully with the world, using these in-person meetings as a means to figure out my place in it - seems to be pushing these questions. What’s the goal? Is all this writing helpful, really?

And, I swear, I’m not asking so you’ll tell me it is. I’m really questioning it myself. Maybe you’re doing the same with some of the aspects of your life and, if so, high five! But a pensive high five, rather than a super excited one.

I think that in modernized life - with the internet ruling communication - our actions can sometimes feel like shouting into the void. That’s often how I feel when I publish an essay or story. I’m never sure if enough people read it, then as soon as one day later - one day later!- feel pressure to write another one. A better one. If I write a better one maybe I’ll finally feel like I’m doing it right. But I do write another piece and it’s the same.

It’s not that I never feel good about my work. I love talking to and writing about people, and sharing my own feelings in a way that I hope makes sense.

It’s that I don’t know if it’s having an impact, except in that I got the sentences out of my head and onto the page, which felt like a necessary urge at the time.

(When I was a reporter at a county paper in my twenties I never felt this way because I’d see the people who read the paper every single day, and they’d comment on what I’d written. Sometimes they’d get mad at me, even. I loved it.)

And now? It really feels like shouting into the void. So I’ve started wondering if when all this is over, I’d be happier in a profession where the goals were clearer, and interaction with other humans is a daily part of the routine (during non-pandemic times, at least).

All this thinking feels incredibly self-indulgent to me, but I really am curious if others are feeling the same, whether it’s your job or daily routine or parenting or anything else.

But there are quieter, calmer moments, too, when I feel like I’m reaching some sort of clarity.

Maybe it’s time I admitted that the “process” - however pompous or non-essential or incredibly elusive at the current juncture - carries its own vital sense of meaning and worth. That I write because I can’t not do it; that I write with children screaming at me from behind a locked door because that is what I do; that I’m not sure what the goal is a lot of the time, and certainly have no idea right now; and that the point is simply to keep doing it. over and over, better and better until I convince myself that it’s good enough, only to start the process over again.