On Writing While Having Ears
The other morning, I yelled at a bird. He was pecking at the side of my house right outside my office like he was trying to Morse-code Infinite Jest into the drywall.
In his defense, that’s his job. He’s a woodpecker. Nominative determinism at its most bloggable.
In my defense, I was attempting to write. That’s (allegedly) my job. Writing requires concentration, intention, structure, and little-to-no bird drama.
Inspired by Maya Angelou, I woke early to try to be one of those Excellent Writers™ who catch the Be-Brilliant-Doing-The-Writing-Thing motes that supposedly float through the dawn.
Well, I woke up early. The “Be-Brilliant-Doing-The-Writing-Thing” is more Dr. Angelou’s domain.
Early morning, it turns out, is when my brain picks at itself then presents a show called Every Mistake I’ve Ever Made and Also Let’s Workshop Future Ones! There are musical numbers and everything.
An imperfect start to the day, but at least it’s terrible.
I do not write first thing, although I get organized. Coffee focuses me enough to craft a to-do list. Then I’m organized and stressed. This counts as multitasking.
These last few weeks, the woodpecker has been clocking in by 7:00 a.m. I call him The Contractor. I should call him Sir Aneurysm Incoming.
As a writer (allegedly), I’m supposed to observe the delicate, shimmering miracle of existence. And I want to. I try to. It’s hard to notice anything other than the bird face-hammering my office wall into dust.
The household wakes.
There is one rule to getting teenagers out the door: engage only when summoned. It’s best not to care out loud. But I do. Catastrophically. Usually by saying “good morning.”
You can count the syllables in their sighs.
There are daily logistics to coordinate with my husband: forms, appointments, who is attending to which child where, who is giving the dishwasher emotional support, and …wait, we’re out of ketchup?
Before my workday starts, I’ve absorbed everyone’s emotions because my empathy is an open-concept floor plan. Add to that the simmering impatience of the man in the Subaru behind us who believes my insufficient acceleration jeopardizes the spirit of American progress. I fear he will tailgate one or both of us directly into another dimension.
Sir, I am driving a practical mid-size SUV, and I am doing my best.
I do not want to ruin his day until he honks.
Finally, I sit to write. Whither my Muse?
My Muse is draped across the couch, wearing my robe and eating pastries. “You’ve got this,” she says, waving strudel in my general direction.
This is unhelpful.
At its core, writing is solving one small problem only to discover it was guarding a nest of larger, slipperier ones tangled in a Gordian knot of plot and character and the ability to put words in some kind of order.
It is noble, irritating labor.
I can do noble, irritating labor. Muse-less, even.
Tap. Tap. Taptaptaptap.
Just as I consider offering the woodpecker a co-writing credit if he’d please shut up, my neighbor steps into his backyard to practice trumpet. Backyard trumpet. Right by my office.
Then someone revs a car engine like they’re summoning the ghost of Vin Diesel (who, it should be noted, is not dead).
This does not deter the woodpecker. He is a professional. He should take up writing.
I’ve read the Internet. It says that if I were truly committed to my craft, I would simply not hear all the noise.
Yes. Thank you. I hadn’t considered the bold strategy of not having ears.
Look, distraction is not always avoidance. Sometimes attention goes to the loud thing because the thing is loud.
The world is committed to being loud. I am committed to being a Good Enough Writer™ who li — aaaand now leafblowers are forming some sort of demented quartet with the backyard trumpet-noodling neighbor.
Taptaptaptap.
I opened the window.
“Bird! Stop!”
Quiet.
It felt good. I added “Deal with woodpecker” to my to-do list, then crossed it off.
Except…
I yelled at a bird.
This doesn’t make me feel observant of the delicate, shimmering miracle of existence.
It makes me feel like an asshole. The sort of asshole whose command of language evaporates under pressure, leaving me with nothing but “Bird! Stop!”
I wandered over to the couch for reassurance from my Muse. She shook an empty bag of kettle chips at me, wanting a refill.
Tap. Tap. Taptaptaptap.
That bird’s Muse is clearly better than mine.
Jackie Pick 