Watching the penultimate episode of Doctor Who last night, I realized (afterwards) that it was a rare hour in which my brain was totally engaged with story as it was unfolding. I wasn’t analyzing structure, looking for breaks in continuity or… well, I was going to say things that didn’t make sense, but then again, it was Doctor Who. Nonetheless, this is a rare occurrence now, my writer-and-editor’s brain always weighing if the narrative works, if it could be improved.
My brain is rarely still. It never was, but as a child my (undiagnosed) ADHD, of the day-dreaming, messy, begin-something-and-not-finish-it sort found what it needed by discovering new worlds in books. I once read six library books in a day (and they weren’t children’s books.) The Lord of the Rings was swallowed in three. Either that, or I was inventing my own elaborate worlds based on Star Trek or The Man from Uncle, or out in the fields and woods learning trees and birds and wildflowers. And like most people with ADHD, I could focus on a preferred subject for hours.
Somewhere in my sixty-six years, I learned to control my unquiet brain to some extent. But it can’t stand to be idle: I’m less obviously day-dreamy now, because that’s been channeled into the imaginary world of my books. But even though it’s a ‘preferred subject’ I can only write or plan for a few hours a day. And if I don’t have something else to focus on, I get bored. Moody. Unproductive. ‘Give me work!’ brain demands. (It doesn’t mean cleaning the cupboards, of course.)
Busy-ness is necessary for me. (And deadlines.) So, brain, looking at the year ahead – researching and writing the next book, a few short stories to write, a couple of editing jobs, chairing the community newsletter, said, ‘nope, this isn’t enough. Remember that creative writing group you were asked to lead?’
I live in a 55+ community of active, retired adults. How many want to try creative writing? Thirty. An impossible number for one group. Or even two. It’ll be four, occupying my Tuesday afternoons for the foreseeable future. Mostly beginners – but some novelists and poets already-published or agented-and-querying as well, people who have more formal education in writing than I do. I’ll get to learn, as well as teach, which is a bonus. But – the moment I agreed to do this, brain, which had been futzing around with character vignettes and some plot outlines for the next book, but no serious writing, said, ‘All right! Now it’s time to write! Fingers on keyboard, please!’ and began to unroll the story.
As perhaps I had secretly hoped it would. Maybe I do understand my brain a bit after sixty-six years. I will no doubt swear and whine and growl at it over the next months – but I will be writing and teaching, and researching and learning – all the things I love to do – and I won’t be bored.
But the cupboards probably won’t get cleaned, either.
Featured : Image by Megan Rexazin Conde from Pixabay




You must be logged in to post a comment.