Today is the first day of the rest of the week.

So today was my first day of living the dream: being a writer. I slept until 7 a.m.—an hour later than during the semester, which is a real treat. Someday I’d like to sleep until noon. I haven’t done that since…well, ever. I’ve never been much of a sleeper. Even in my days of playing with the band(s), I would get home around 3 or 4 in the morning, crawl into bed and be completely unable to sleep. Next thing I knew, it was time for breakfast. Anyway, some habits die hard, I guess, because I’m still that way. I didn't sleep much last night, wound up watching hockey highlights with the sound muted for a couple of hours. But I still get up at the same time; otherwise, I feel I might miss something (besides sleep, I mean).

After breakfast, which takes all of ten or fifteen minutes, I amble to my home office (aka “the den”) where I check e-mails, MSN news, CBC sports page, and anything else that will assure me that the world didn’t end in a massive terrorist attack overnight. Reassured, I decided it was time to start writing. (To be honest, even if Overaged Relatively Normal Ninja Turtles had bombed downtown Tokyo this morning, I probably would have continued with my day. It's just that I like to be informed, even if the world really has gone to hell.)

And it really was time to starting writing. It’s just that someone forgot to tell my brain that. It’s kind of a huge shift to go from being a teacher and academic to suddenly expecting yourself to be Creative Guy. I’m sure some of you know what I mean. In my early undergraduate years I managed to write a few short stories here and there—none of them very good; I’m not even sure I still have them—but it was hard to just turn it on and off like that. That hasn’t changed either.

I find that music helps. I have my mp3 player nearby always, just in case I need inspiration. (I intentionally don’t have an iPod because they don’t have all the features I want/need, such AM/FM radio and a microphone, essentials to me). Every time I work on a new book or story, I have a “soundtrack” that gets me in the mood for that specific story and the characters that inhabit that world. My current project is called Darwin Day (a novel), and I have two separate soundtracks for it—one is instrumental (the words of others get in the way of fresh thinking sometimes) and the other has pop and/or rock songs, some of the era in which the story takes place. It just gets me in the mood to write.

Or think about writing. Really, what I did today while listening to Rush's "Tom Sawyer" was reading over what I had already done several months ago to remind me of where it was going. I don’t get into that nasty habit of revising the first fifty pages over and over so that the story never moves forward. That’s a trap, and if you’re writing a novel or story of your own, I’d suggest you steer clear of it. Just keep going, on word in front of the last one until you reach the end (of the sentence, paragraph, chapter, or novel). Don’t look back until you’re done, and don’t show it to anyone else when you’ve written ten precious pages and ask, “What do you think?”What if they say, “You suck. What made you think you could be a writer?” Where would that leave you? It could traumatize you forever so that you definitely never would be a writer. I mean, you must have REALLY valued that other person’s opinion or you never would have asked. I’m not sure that people who ask other people’s opinions of their writing really want the truth. Besides, whose truth is it? Who has the right to tell you that your work isn’t worth anything? If you believe in it, just finish it. Ask for input from other people then, sure, but if they tell you it’s rotten to the core, don’t give up on it and throw it in the wood chipper. Just keep writing. And even if they say, "It's great!" it wouldn't mean much. It's only ten pages. The average novel far exceeds that much. It's kind of like pouring cement for a foundation and asking a master carpenter, "So what do you think of my new house?"

Anyway, I’m digressing. I was talking about my first day of writing.I read half of those first fifty pages and felt very satisfied with myself. Then I did laundry (as part of the work-sharing agreement between me and my wife in which she still does the majority), went out to meet a friend for lunch for a couple of hours, came home and answered some e-mails, and then had supper. So it’s nearly 8 p.m. and I’m just settling in to do some writing, again.

I know I’ll really start tomorrow. I promised myself that I would write fifty pages this week, which would be a major triumph for me. I can usually write way more than that, but I’m taking it easy on myself, especially considering tomorrow’s Tuesday already, and this is my first full-time writing in a long time.

I’m reminded of that story about James Joyce (I think it was from Stephen King that I read it in his book On Writing). Joyce was a slow writer, picky with his words. One evening a friend met him walking on the road and had the temerity to ask Joyce how his day of writing had gone.

“I wrote five words,” Joyce said with exasperation obvious on his face.

“Five words!” His friend clapped his hands in glee. “That’s wonderful for you, Jim. You must be pleased with your output!”

“I suppose,” said Joyce, rubbing his chin. “But I just don’t know what order they go in.”

That was a paraphrase, of course, but that’s how it feels some days. I can’t imagine only writing five words in a day, let alone fussing so much over which order to put them in. My best advice—and the advice I almost always take myself—is to just put your arse in the chair and write. That’s the best way to write anything. If you’re showing up, you’ll eventually get it done. If you don’t show up, nothing gets done. Kind of like life.

Of course, when you show up, it’s nice if you have something to say too.

Enough throat-clearing. I must go write my five words.

Gerard