Writers and their quirks: an improbably logical alliance

Writing is rarely easy, mostly hard.? The transformation from ethereal gray matter to tangible black and white compels an embrace of fearlessness, resolution and perseverance.? And, at some point along the way, this challenging and mysterious profession demands from the writer the construction of a conducive environment ? a writer's room ? built with particularly, and, perhaps, peculiarly sized nuts and bolts.? From the outside, this structure may appear utterly random and disordered or, alternatively, obsessively calculated and inflexible.? However, from the inside, the room is nothing less than a perfect reflection of the writer's unique and instinctive idiosyncrasies ? most often displayed in deliberately arranged items and routine disciplines.? Yes, writers have quirks.? The list of eccentricities is long; even a short read can provoke the curious to ask the question, Why?

Why does a writer wear the same item of clothing every day?? Why does one writer wear white from head to toe?? Why does another wear all black or purple or red?? Why must a writer wear a certain color lipstick, and why does that writer panic when Chanel drops Fatale #71 from its Rouge Allure line?? Why does a writer purposely line up the same pens in the same order every single day?? Why can't a writer have two cups of coffee each day instead of three?? Why can't that writer drink those two or three cups from a small white cup instead of large white cup?? Why must a writer arise at the same time each day, work at the same time each day ? either morning, afternoon or evening ? bathe in the same fashion at the same time each day, and go to sleep at a designated and inflexible each night?? Why does any single change in a writer's regime make it impossible to write the following day or days or weeks?? Why can't a writer handle even the smallest interruption?? Why does a knock at the door send a writer into a downward speed-wobble?? Why does a ringing phone send a writer for cover?? Why can't a writer work when there's someone in the vicinity, even when that someone is quiet as a mouse, and even when that someone is not actually visible?? Why does a writer become paralyzed and unable to write past Tuesday night simply because someone is scheduled to mow the lawn on Thursday?? Instead of writing on Wednesday, why does that writer sit like a petrified rock and stare down the driveway in anticipation of the next day's intruder?? Why, on Thursday, does the writer draw the blinds and slink around from window to window until that lawn mower has left the area?? Why do plans for November make it impossible for a writer to write in October?? Why can't a writer take a day off now and then?? Why does a question as simple as "What would you like for dinner tonight" or "Would you like to take a vacation next year" throw a writer so off-kilter that it takes months to recover?? In fact, why is answering a single question more disconcerting than staring at a blank page?? In sum, why all these rigid disciplines and inexplicable eccentricities??

Is the answer to these "Why" questions simply: idiosyncratic superstition, obsessive compulsion, or the inability to perform more than one verb at a time?? Perhaps, in part.? But the answer may actually be a bit more complex and a lot more rational.? Writers' quirks are part of the tools of the trade, used to maintain an asylum strong enough to defeat the forces of disruption.? And why is this necessary?? Because, at its very core, writing possesses a quality of nearly unbearable fragility.? In The New York Times, "Writers on Writing" series, July 30, 2000, (excerpted below) the novelist Walter Mosley describes this delicate temperament with such precision that an attempt at improvement would be sheer hubris:

"(The muse of writing) .

. . comes softly and quietly, behind your left ear or in a corner of the next room.? Her words are whispers, her ideas shifting renditions of possibilities that have not been resolved, though they have occurred and reoccurred a thousand times in your mind.? She, or it, is a collection of memories not exactly your own.? These reminiscences surface in dreams or out of abstract notions brought on by tastes and excitations, failures and hopes that you experience continually. These ideas have no physical form.? They are smoky concepts liable to disappear at the slightest disturbance.? An alarm clock or a ringing telephone will dispel a new character; answering the call will erase a chapter from the world.? Our most precious ability, the knack of creation, is also our most fleeting resource. ?What might be, fades in the world of necessity.? How can I create when I have to go to work, cook my dinner, remember what I did wrong to the people who have stopped calling?? And even if I do find a moment here and there ? a weekend away in the mountains, say ? how can I say everything I need to say before the world comes crashing back with all of its sirens and shouts and television shows?? Writing a novel is gathering smoke . . . an excursion into the ether of ideas . . . the dream you gathered.? Reality fights against your dreams, it tries to deny creation and change.? The world wants you to be someone known, someone with solid ideas, not blowing smoke.? Given a day, reality will begin to scatter your notions; given two days, it will drive them off. ?The act of writing is a kind of guerrilla warfare; there is no vacation, no leave, no relief.? In actuality there is very little chance of victory.? But (still the writer goes to work) and the words are waiting."

Given these exquisitely ephemeral qualities, a writer's quirks can, perhaps, be seen not simply as neuroses, but as a means to maintain control over the uncontrollable and order over the disarray.? Perhaps these personal quirks can be compared to "Special Ops" forces, enlisted to fight on the frontlines of the ongoing battle against the indefatigable "Army of Distraction."? And, perhaps, the non-writer can admire the ingenuity of a writer who can create such improbable devises for one single purpose: to write ? to fill a single blank white sheet of paper with one word and then another word, until the page is filled . . . and then do the exact same thing ? employing the same exact idiosyncrasies ? until the work is completed . . . until the final two words are written: The End.

Source: http://education.ezinemark.com/writers-and-their-quirks-an-improbably-logical-alliance-18d5bc84825.html

susan g komen kenyon martin kenyon martin big miracle slab city super bowl snacks appleton