Notes on the Writing Life

The daily battle for a little peace and quiet

Since the Orange Menace’s inauguration in January of twenty zillion years ago, my days have been crammed with Zoom meetings, disjointed Excel spreadsheets I’ve been obliged to reformat eighteen times then convert to csv files, lively conversations with new activists, maddening questions from just about everyone, newsletters and blog posts bloated with endless lists in their opening sentences, and the constant urge to throw my phone against the wall to stop its incessant pinging and vibrating. Somehow I’ve managed to churn out a bit of intelligible writing despite this, but the constant intrusions have made me want to eat my teeth.

I love being a writer and am constantly astounded and grateful that I can support my mediocre lifestyle working with words. But if I said it was easy, consistently pleasurable, or devoid of aggravations, my pants would spontaneously burst into flames.

Writing takes time. Quiet, uninterrupted time. The folks in our lives understandably underestimate the concentration and brain work we pour into it when all they see is us staring out the window and pecking at our keyboards. And for those who don’t labor in the writer’s peculiar salt mines, it’s easy to believe we just boot up our laptops and crank out fully formed pieces or take dictation directly from the mouth of God. We don’t. I suspect that even King David, upon realizing one of his Psalms still wasn’t working, pulled out a fresh papyrus, picked up his reed, and got to work on his second draft. I also suspect that by the third or fourth interruption from his nephew, Joab, he became a bit testy. Time is a writer’s most precious natural resource, and woe to the thieves who steal it, for their wickedness shall melt their own riches like wax in a furnace!

Or, to put it in a more modern context, four out of five writers agree that the leading cause of their annoyance, frustration, and day drinking is due to the onslaught of interruptions we experience from those who should know better.

Writers can be a cantankerous bunch, and I will admit to being an irritable person myself. (I once got irrationally angry at a stranger for wearing a purple fedora.) I’m trying to even out my natural temperament through a regimen of prayer, nicotine, mindfulness, Zoloft, and cheese, but sometimes my overarching crankiness is not just me being me; it’s a direct result of battling the world’s incessant intrusions.

To get from point A, the desire to get something on the page, to point B, a shitty first draft, a writer needs to accomplish many things at once. She must subdue her anxieties about being competent even when she has been writing for decades because she knows the success of each new project is never promised. She must also crush her desire to deep clean the kitchen or shampoo the carpet when the writing goes sideways, which it will inevitably do. And she must keep on going even when the world feels like it’s on fire and her chosen profession feels a bit too highfalutin to really mean anything. Those are a lot of dragons to slay.

That’s why we experience distractions as an almost existential threat to our survival. Imagine the mental labor expended on slaying each of those dragons before being capable of composing two good sentences, then hearing your phone ping with a stupid message that breaks your writer’s trance and provides the dragons with time to replenish their fire breathing stores (Of ethanol? Propane? Aqua Net and a Bic lighter?) and plot their next assault.

And that doesn’t even account for the multitude of important interruptions: Taking a phone call from the school nurse, depositing a check, letting the dog out to pee, helping your father with his friggin modem yet again, and rewarming your coffee.

Virginia Woolf famously wrote, “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” But in the Year of Our Lord 2025, I wish to submit the following addendum: A woman must have money, a room of her own, and for you to stop texting her every goddamn minute if she is to write fiction, nonfiction, a cruddy little article, her clients’ projects, or a coherent grocery list.

While writing that last sentence, I felt compelled to silence my phone. I don’t know what voodoo my friends and family practice, but the instant my fingers touch the keyboard some unseen force compels everyone on God’s green earth to message me.

Ping! What time are you starting dinner?

Ping! Didn’t I tell you Fetterman would be a problem?

Ping! Today only—50% off all Land’s End swimwear. Use the code INTERRUPTME.

Ping! Did you read this article? We should discuss at our next meeting.

Ping! Can I put my Yeti in the dishwasher?

Ping! Trump and Musk are hurting children! Can you chip in $5 a month to join the fight?

Ping! I need to drop this press release soon. Can you take a quick look?

Writing is both a grind and a privilege, and nothing brings more satisfaction than spending my days this way. And though I would love to compose a weightier concluding paragraph for you, I have twenty-seven unread messages waiting for me that I’m itching to read and am now considering buying a new swimsuit. Fifty percent off is a good deal.

Stay strong and write on, my friends!