Hedgehog in the Blog

Becoming a writer is the result of many hours of diligent work and study, and a great deal of impulse control. Our environment, including the distractions in it, influence the work. While working in a cafe or library has its charms, these environments introduce too many ways to get out of the work. I deal with enough internal distractions, adding environmental factors only aggravates the problem. Cafes present additional transaction costs: deciding on a location, switching locations if it’s too loud or there’s not a table available, the drink purchase,  the inevitable consumption of productivity-hindering gluten I lack the enzymes to process, and focus drifting on people and surrounding conversations. Earplugs help, but I have yet to find a sensible pair of blinders.

Solution: The MIR work station.  No disrespect to Richard Wright, Roberto Bolano, Francis Fukuyama, or Milan Kundera intended.  Nanos gigantium humeris insidentes  – my efforts stand on the shoulder of giants, literally. Just not my favorite giants. I used books I’m not likely to reference to elevate my desk so I can stand and work. It’s a cheaper alternative to an adjustable Aeron-caliber chair and a change from the eight hours of sitting at my day job.

The workstation adheres to ergonomic sensibilities. My elbows are at approximately 90 degrees and my eyes look straight keeping my chin level. I use my iPad as a second screen via AirDisplay.  I also spend more time on task because standing is more expensive than sitting for the body. When I get a bit stiff I pace around the room and return. Shifting weight from one leg to another and occasional swaying keeps me moving and alert.

The iPad is also useful when I’m on the go, especially when I ride my bike. I take advantage of the endorphins generated by biking and make pit stops at cafes or libraries on my path. The iPad and bluetooth keyboard are lightweight enough to carry around on rides and the endorphins override the usual distractions mentioned above.  The physical exploration on my bike opens my mind to new ideas and infuses a sense of possibility.

Observing the habits of artists, I’ve adopted carrying around a small notebook for jotting down observations, new words, and interesting read or overheard statements. I prefer spiral notebooks because I don’t have to put any effort in keeping them open as I write – efficiency gains are vital with analog tools. I alternate between cheap Staples and luxurious Clairefontaine varieties.

Pens of choice: Pilot Multiball (from Japan) can be found here, and Kaweco ALSport fountain pen (fits nicely into lady pockets)

I use Evernote for organizing reading notes, quotes, articles, lists, research ideas, and outlines. It has a search function, easy to use UI, and most importantly, I can access it on all of my devices including my day job computer. Dropbox is useful in the same way for sharing drafts and accessing files on any computer with an internet connection.

The most important tool of my work station is my guide through this whole process. Jake is a talented man and a great teacher who I can count on for valuable feedback and a stern kick in the ass. He’s enabling me to leapfrog faster over ineffective but common stages of novice writing.

On the left of my computer is a quote from Jake:

“Too much fiction is just about dumb people with dumb problems doing dumb things that the application of some minor amount of logic would solve. Bored with life because you’re a vaguely artistic hipster? Get a real job, or learn some science, or be a real artist, or do something meaningful. The world is full of unmet needs and probably always will be. But so many characters wander around protected by their own little bubles. Get out! The world is a big place.”

Finding the right tools and creating a working environment that limits distractions and promotes focus has been extremely helpful. I still face productivity challenges – Facebook, checking email, looking for my BFF Min Moon or a guy I really like to sign into chat – but having a set, physical space for my work is a  constant reminder of the sustained effort I can no longer avoid. I’ve avoided it too long.

The second goodbye is harder than the first.
It isn’t permanent I hope.
Come back together or alone.

You hand me plants;
I promise to provide a caring home.

Painfully familiar, too bare,
not knowing bareness is the loam.

And as I pull away,
your smell,
your cleanly shaven face-
it lingers on the drive.

Looking ahead, I peek behind and see
shadows of broken plans, unspoken words dance across the seats.

It is the people, smiles, glances,
the smells and cleanly shaven faces.
The homes we build of undetermined places.

A young man well out of youth chewed on his pinky as he faced the window of a train speeding through Brittany. Partitioned fields and sagging power lines passed frame by frame. He held an indeterminate gaze. The visage didn’t matter—its passing did.

I had been alone in the compartment until he boarded in Rennes. He gave a conciliatory nod and asked if he could take the window seat. A beige fixed-hinge tabletop separated our bottom halves. He took yesterday’s Le Monde and Wired out of his black backpack and stacked both neatly in his corner of the table. His heavy lids suggested he would read neither.

I was right. First the pinky would fall out of his mouth and join the rest of his fingers curled into a pale cheek. The head would tilt down as the lids closed. After a few gentle sways of his shoulders and a slight twitch of the knees, he would float away. He was an exceptionally neat and quiet sleeper. As he slept, we’d finally be in each other’s company, free from the compulsion to enforce separation with books and music players. He’d wake to gaze out the window for a few minutes and be back to sleep shortly. At times I’d join him.

Two hours after his arrival, the train came to a stop but not at a station. Instead we were in a field with two barns visible on our side. After twenty minutes at rest the doors opened. Passengers disembarked. Many put down jackets and sat on the grass. Children ran around, some played hide and seek, their parents begging them not to enter the barns. I sat instinctually a few feet outside our window, watching the young man, now more alert, pacing between the more accepting passengers pulling sandwiches and water bottles from their bags. The young man would eventually follow suit and sit down. His knees, unaccustomed to sitting on the ground, pierced the landscape.

After exchanging grumbles with those near me, now sitting in silence, I began to feel my shoulders curl into my chest. I put my head down into the crease of my elbow and intertwined forearms. I was now only half-hearing conversations, rustling bags, and feet crunching through weeds. I’d eventually disconnect. After what didn’t feel like much more than fifteen minutes, with my head still down, I heard pages turning. Peeking through my forearm, I saw the young man. I knew if I raised my head we’d have to speak.

“I’m sorry I should have asked your name earlier,” he said as soon as I looked up.
“It’s Amadeo.”
“Joseph. Nice to meet you.”
“You as well.”
“Where are you from?” He detected an accent in my French, as I did in his.
“Alsace, and you?”
“Canada”
“What brings you?”
“A new job. Well, the same job but at the office in Paris.”
“Same job, new office, new continent,” I pause and think of Mathilde. “I hope you find what you couldn’t at home.”
“I wasn’t exactly home where I was last.” He looks away.“ What do you do?”
“I’m a construction planner.”
“I hope we get going before five. I need to meet my new boss for supper and any longer I’d miss him.”
“I hope for your sake we do. First impressions, you know how they work.”

To ease his nerves, I suggest we walk around to stretch our legs. On his way up to his feet, he rips off a limb from a hearty weed. He peels the young bark revealing the limb’s moist flesh. He rubs it between his fingers as we walk. His nerves make him talk. He tells me he worked in America the last eight years. He becomes playful once he lets go of impressing me with lists of job duties and layouts of offices he’d worked in. I couldn’t really grasp what he did. His parents were divorced. The mother remarried a younger man. The father, long due for retirement, still worked in a law firm.

I asked if he’d left anyone behind. He was confused and asked what I meant. What else: I meant a woman. He said no, and I sensed I was getting closer to the motive for the move. Presumptuously I warned him the les femmes d’ici, though better dressed, were no easier to melt. As he stumbled through reasons of why he couldn’t find himself in America, I grew envious of his hope. I saw Mathilde’s green eyes and red hair.

We heard a whistle in the distance and uniforms waving us back toward the train. The young man thanked me. We returned to our compartment and our gazing-dozing pattern for the remainder of the trip. As I left in Le Mans and he continued on to Paris, I wished him luck and hope that he’d find what he was looking for, and her. I pulled out a folded note from my wallet and handed it to him.

I overcorrected in the quest of melting you.
I wished for the drop that would start it all anew.
I did not callous your hands,
Or push you to rip up your heels on cobbled roads.
I did not have the strength to stretch your heart to hold the blood for two.
See the flesh tones spilling out of the lines.
Find your tribe and call it our own.

Mathilde, 1990