I’m not exactly a creative powerhouse on Monday. I feel like I’m at the bottom of the hill, pushing against the boulder, hoping it will move. I can’t be expected to write sheer poetry as well.
And I’m fairly certain that Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon wasn’t painted on a Monday, and War and Peace didn’t exactly flow out of Tolstoy’s pen at the start of the week either.
As the week wears on, though, I do find some extra stores of energy and once the workaday writing is done, I try to put it into this blog, the other blog*, the book ideas, and other projects that are floating around out there.
On Tuesday, while driving home from work, I think about how funny zucchini are, and how that would be a GREAT blog post, so I reach for the voice recorder to describe the idea before it fades.
On Wednesday, in the bathroom at work, I think of a completely unique way of designing my writing portfolio, and quickly rush back to my office to write the idea down before I forget.
On Thursday—oh, glorious Thursday—I’m sitting on a conference call and suddenly realize what the heck my protagonist is going to do in the next chapter, so I text myself a 160-character note before it dissolves.
The creative burst is never as loud as it is on Friday, though—two whole empty days lay ahead and the inspired outpouring of words is going to be legendary, I just know it. On Friday, the ideas come so fast and furious that my heart is beating loud at the end of the work day as I stuff a dozen Post-It notes, a page torn from a yellow legal pad, the trusty voice recorder, and the iPad bursting with different writing checklists into my purse and head home for the creative marathon that will be my weekend.
I should mention that while all these creative ideas were raining down on me all week, so were all the operational ones: I need to buy groceries, I need to hose off the porch, I have to wash my car, I want to re-arrange the books on the shelves in the guest room, I’d like to finally do something decorative on that big blank wall in the kitchen, I want to try that chicken recipe, and, oh yeah, maybe I’ll vacuum, too.
So there’s a list for that stuff as well.
And starting on Tuesday, I assign all the tasks and ideas and projects a time—Friday night, Saturday morning, Saturday afternoon, Sunday midday—and know deep in my heart that THIS is the weekend everything gets tackled and accomplished.
And that’s the heady feeling of Friday. Finally—time to do everything I’ve thought about doing all week. It makes me a little bit giddy, actually; how exciting it will be to finally email that article query to the editor of Saveur and to finish the second chapter of that crazy memoir. There’s so much time in two days, and I KNOW I’m going to make the most of it.
But then, well…you know.
By the time you make dinner, sleep, wake up, shower, grocery shop, make lunch, replace the batteries in the smoke detectors, run to UPS to mail back those stupid pants from J. Jill that were too long, finally vacuum…well, then you’re too tired to be all creative and stuff.
But that’s a problem for Sunday night.
Now it’s Friday, and all I want to think about are all the creative projects I’m going to wallow in all weekend…