Working from Home
by Jennifer Pescio Russell
When I try to think of what I did before I started writing, my memory is a little fuzzy. Sure there were jobs, we’ve all had those, but nothing that chained me to a desk for hours or kept me up at night.
I’m working on my memoir, now, and have been for the last six years. It’s a work in progress, but progress is slow. The trouble is, I’ve given myself a loose deadline, and that’s because it’s MY memoir.
I’d like to finish it before I die.
Friends and neighbors curiously wonder what I do in my house all day that makes me so busy.
“Oh, writing. What do you write?”
“I’m writing a book.”
“Since you’re at home, can you feed my dogs while I’m at work?”
I already know that there is a misconception about working at home whether it be raising a family or writing a book. When you are at home, people feel like you have a lot of free time to do other things.
I find myself explaining that I am working on a critical point of the story, a place where I’m setting scenes into the narrative and trying to find the right transitions. If I stop and start again, I’ll have to reread all of the scenes and start again.
“But you’re home, right?”
What they don’t seem to understand is that I am at my desk, typing significant arrangements of words on my computer that tell a meaningful story. It is painstaking work. I must “show” not tell, get the facts straight, the sequence smart. And, even when I think it’s polished and ready, a new idea upsets it, and requires some effort to edit or fix it.
Fellow writers know it’s a significant process, much like raising a child. We mold and shape our paragraphs, manage our metaphors, give our characters depth that living people don’t even have, and place them into the most scenic of places, be it the rolling hills of West Virginia, or the flooded basement in our first house.
My own child doesn’t always understand this. At thirteen, she has few requests, all imminent.
“Can you help me with my homework……NOW.”
“Let me just finish this chapter.”
“Mom, I need help now.”
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I know the chapter can wait, especially with the loose deadline I’ve given myself, and I remind myself that her thirteen years will turn into a time when there will be no requests upon my time. I head upstairs.
I’m still thinking about writing even when I’m not actually writing. My mind is running marathons, discovering cures to illnesses, and eating at fine restaurants around the world. Not only am I not available to tend to other peoples’ chores, I rarely tend to my own. I’m working, even though I live in my favorite college sweatshirts and never drive to the office.
Some days, even my husband forgets this as he is rushing out the door for work and asking me to pick up his dry cleaning or something from Costco.
“Okay," I shout back, knowing he isn’t really listening but trusts that I will do what he asks. “I’ll try to fit it in between the scene where the girl decides she must kill her boyfriend in order to regain her life and the one where the boyfriend decides to go out drinking instead of coming home.”
“Whatever. Love you.”
Sometimes I inject myself into different settings like I do with my characters. A Toshiba Notebook makes it easy to transport over fifty thousand words to the local library or coffee house, a necessary exercise when my dedication to the craft isn’t inspiring enough. Amidst the new surroundings, my perception changes and the words begin to flow again.
Given that perception and point of view are of utmost importance to a writer, I’ve decided that my productivity might improve if other people see me heading off to work. So tomorrow, I’ll dress for the office, get into my car, drive around the block, park in my assigned spot in my driveway and tighten my deadline. Maybe I’ll even ask my neighbors if they can feed my dogs……….
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Jennifer lives with her husband and daughter in San Marcos, CA. She has a Masters in Writing from Portland State University and teaches a class called, “From Journal to Memoir.” She is still working on her memoir. |
Jenny Russell |
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Thanks Jenny for the article... John Wolf
