Downtime.

I decline to create a meaningful subtitle.

Near the Wharf, Portland, ME

Writing my first novel has been wonderfully challenging and absorbing. I started in earnest 3 years ago, and in August, completed a second full draft. Seeking advice on workflow, I messaged an online friend who’s edited books by some of the most famous writers in the world. When I told her I intended to take a couple of weeks off, she said I was rushing it.

“Put it on the back burner and turn your attention to something else entirely for a while, like 2-3 months,” she wrote. ‘You need to purge it out of your brain and fill the space with something completely unrelated. That's the only way to be able to read it again with a fresh eye.”

Really? That long? She was adamant.

“The work ethic will get in the way, and ultimately sabotage the creative effort. Go paint a painting or play an instrument for a couple of months, even if you’re terrible at it. Let the verbal part of your brain rest and reset itself.”

I was surprised by how much relief I felt. I always give myself so much shit for the amount of downtime I take from various projects, or how long it takes for some idea to gestate in my brain-womb. But I haven’t written in over a month and it’s given me time to work more on other things, like my blurry photographs. We traveled. I played with my grandkids. I cooked and cleaned. We started the ball rolling on a major remodeling project (not my thing — we’re hiring it out). I reorganized my office.

But something even better is happening now: I’m not doing anything. Yesterday, I didn’t do shit. And it was great.

I find that I place way too much value on getting stuff done. And measurement. Measurement has always had an overly important place in my life. How high is the grass in my yard? How much money do I have? What do I weigh? How old am I? Did I complete my to-do list? Yesterday, I walked around the block before dinner, and smelled autumn in the air. I talked to a neighbor I like but for some reason never see.

I know, I’m lucky I can do that at all. Most people these days don’t have time to fuck around much. Everybody has to work long hours because that’s how we become worthy. If our bosses like us, then we’re something, right? If we have a bunch of people following us online, or retweeting us. If we have nice things.

Purpose is a dreadful god.

I want to go back to something I mentioned earlier. My wife and I went to Portland, Maine, for a few days, and it was great. Very different environment than the suburb of Kansas City I live in. You can smell the ocean, hear the boats bellowing, eat seafood caught that morning. The neighborhoods are zoned differently and have little shops and restaurants among the houses, usually on the corner. But the best part of that vacation was we didn’t do anything much. I mean, we went to the Maine Coastal Botanical Garden (which is awesome, by the way), and we visited a lady who teaches about tide pools (you should see all the tiny creatures in those things), and Linda went souvenir shopping while I took pictures. But the principle behind this vacation was NOT to fill up the days with rushing around to see everything. And it was so nice.

Will all this make me a better writer? I don’t know. But doesn’t it seem like the world would be better if we didn’t put so much emphasis on achievement? What if people spent their lives playing? We’d still get stuff done. We’d definitely be more productive. What if we stopped competing so much and collaborated more?

And here’s another thought. What if purpose (90% of which is objectively artificial) diverts us from discovering the real meaning of living, which is just to be here? What if the most meaningful moments of existence can be found in looking out the window, or playing a game, or laughing at a joke, or going for a walk?

Photo art from Portland, Maine, and Chicago.