A WRITER'S TEMPLE - It didn't take long. Folks are upset because fate handed me a mansion on the Pacific, no job, no bills, no household chores (cocktail parties and fan mail optional). Temporarily rich, I'm learning how to push an intercom button and order breakfast when I feel like it in the morning. Queenie bought a young chestnut stallion, hand picked by the gardener's brother. A fine horse indeed, according to its trainer -- and heartily concurred by our housekeeper, the relief housekeeper, the downstairs maid, and a leatherfaced blacksmith.
But if I'm going to be envied for anything, I'd rather be scolded for having a writer's temple. If you don't have one, be assured it is the goal of all human industry : farms, oil wells, semiconductor factories, etc. Paradoxically, I did very little to achieve possession of a writer's temple. You can set one up for about 30 cents, and it's completely portable. I've carried this particular temple around the planet with me for the better part of two decades. It fits with any decor (although a bare room is best). Here are the specs:
- desk,
- chair,
- computer,
- printer,
- lamp,
- bed.
So what makes it a temple? -- Chrissie Hynde tonight, Led Zeppelin tomorrow, and a minimum of contact with the outside world, including my wife. We get together between bouts of writing that run for a day or two, before I overheat and need hospitalization. My recurring mental exhaustion doesn't play well in Queenie's boudoir, so I limit my time in the temple to six or seven hours a day, and I learned to take a lot of leisurely breaks. Having houseguests has been helpful (provided that they leave after a few days). But temple life doesn't end simply because I take time off. Indeed, time away must end in my return. I always return to writing, whether I want to or not.
That's why my temple is a masterpiece of efficiency. Left to right on the desk top are: carton of Marlboro, telephone, intercom, legal pad, stack of CDs, ashtray, small pile of notes, coffee cup, mouse pad, and a big empty area to park stuff in transit.
People ask me to read things. They sit in the Transit Area for a month or two and ultimately get shoved in a drawer.
In the event that I have to relocate my writing temple, the desk drawers are emptied, and I say a little ceremonial "Hmm" over a black plastic trash bag, to honor the forgotten. These paper orphans are omelet parts, in the sense that they sacrifice their thin, rectangular lives, so that my temple is not be defiled by accounting statements, story outlines, or vital correspondence. I follow an exacting rule, adapted from the One Minute Manager: handle everything only once, and put all of it immediately in a thick, neat pile that deters further involvement.
I cannot write any other way. The temple computer is always on, and my screen has no games, no cutesy icons, no ICQ flower. Bookmarks are few: just G21 and two other publication venues, a half dozen search engines (Google always wins), and a local archive of my defunct website. This last item reminds me how hard it is to achieve defunctnitude on the web.
I cancelled my London mirror account more than a year ago, and repeatedly begged them by email to delete the subdomain. All I achieved was to lock myself out of their firewall, and the site is still live, proving that this author does not comprehend the Internet.
It's highly debatable that I understand anything at all, since story outlines are useless to me. I pen them in good faith. But however daring and clever, an outline only controls one character, usually less than a week or two --- which is enough to belt out the first chapter. From there, the story takes off on its own, surprising me with situations and personalities over which I have no direct control. The temple has its own agenda, it's own mad logic of dramatic necessity. All I do is show up to write about it.
Therefore, a temple.
Sometimes it's frightening and lonely and empty. I feel like shit and walk away.
The story follows me to the kitchen, to the driveway, to a sunset or the night sky. I whistle for the dogs and pretend that I'm a normal person --- that, no matter what, I'm just as fit as the next fellow to have a private life, I can eat a meal or chat with houseguests.
Writers tell themselves lies like that, to avoid the truth of the temple.
Quality doesn't matter much, nor hope. The essence of the issue is a blank page and the willingness to go naked in public. As far as I know, Victor Hugo already beat me hands down. What remains is a precious window of courage, to let it happen and let it be.
