Yesterday I was on the train on my way home, though in theory I was on my way to yoga. Yoga would require getting off the train four stops sooner than I would if I were planning to go home, put on a panda suit and relax, which I kind of was. I knew that I would be glad *after* going to yoga, and that I would be content while there, but the idea of going was so much less appealing than going home where there was heat and food.
Because I felt myself wavering and in danger of skipping it, I fairly flung myself off the train at the yoga stop. I could have feasibly gotten off the train and then back on, or even waited for another train–i.e. my opportunities to skip yoga wouldn’t be extinguished–but I knew I wouldn’t. As soon as I stood up when the train pulled into the station, yoga was as good as done. The hard part was making a decision that felt irrevocable.
It was like asking someone to prom: I knew that if I could steel myself up enough to say “Hey, _______?” the thing would be set in motion and I would have to go through with it. Again, I could have backed out somehow, but that would have required more effort–coming up with some other reason I would have been calling this guy over, which I generally didn’t have unless I wanted to broach a discussion about Latin club.
(Fact: when I was back from college one summer and learning how to parallel park, I was startled to encounter my prom date driving a tractor. I backed over one of the bottles of Tide my mom had set up in lieu of cones, and none of us noticed that I had punctured it until I was back at college and it leaked all over my closet. Other fact: I did not go to prom the following year–my senior year–but instead went to dinner with friends and then gathered at one girl’s house to watch Silence of the Lambs and eat Teddy Grahams. We weren’t trying to make any kind of statement; we just had never seen it and figured we shouldn’t go to college so unenlightened.)
I’ve tried to figure out what that kickstart is for writing–what locks me into it (I am not one of the lucky and prolific naturally diligent writers. I like *having done it,* and sometimes doing it, but I don’t ever like STARTING to do it). I think at this point it’s setting a timer. My data is limited (I was recently going by number of pages revised or by word count rather than time spent) but I don’t think there’s ever been a case in which I set the timer and then just sat there.
