THE SOLARIUM

When I hear the phrase “writing in the cracks of life”, I think about dandelions growing in the cracks of a sidewalk.

They spring up so easily, these cheerful little suns above a flat concrete world. You can’t understand why anyone would call them a weed.

Then they grow, and grow, and grow. They choke the sidewalk in their proliferation, and no one can get through without crushing them, or becoming ensnared in the ever-denser tangle of stems and leaves.

They spread beyond the sidewalk and into the nearby garden. They choke the lilies, the violets. The reek of crushed stems and pollen drowns out the scent of the roses. This once-vibrant garden, alive with countless colors, is nothing more than a yellow haze.

Maybe a few intrepid dandelions make their way into the greenhouse, the sanctum of the orchids. These flowers, the most beautiful, prized, and delicate, are weakest to the onslaught.

Before long, there’s nothing left.

***

This week, in my publishing MA class, we had a guest lecture from sci fi and fantasy author Michael La Ronn.

I was previously unfamiliar with his work, but he’s quite prolific, which is even more impressive when one considers that he’s also a parent with a full-time job. His talk was about productivity, and one concept he shared was that of “writing in the cracks of life.”

What does it mean to write in the cracks of life?

It’s about finding small moments throughout the day where you can get a few words down, maybe a few sentences. Standing in line at the grocery store. Waiting at the doctor’s office. In the car (through dictation, of course, NOT distracted driving!)

Why not make headway on one of your works in progress instead of staring into space or playing some dumb little game on your phone? With all the hours I’ve logged on Bejeweled or Bubble Shooter, I probably could have written War and Peace eight times over.

It’s good advice. I’ve heard it echoed by similarly prolific authors. To a certain extent, I’d say it’s common sense.

But it frightens me a little. I have a very obsessive personality, which is unsurprising, given that I have OCD¹ and autism. Why does that mean that a part of me is wary of La Ronn’s advice?

When I push myself too hard to write in “the cracks of life”, those cracks start to widen.

I’m not just writing in waiting rooms, in lines, during the hour or two I’ve set aside for myself during the day. I’m writing until 6 a.m. the next day, during class, during work, instead of visiting friends, instead of eating.

To his credit, Michael La Ronn also emphasized that creatives, like everyone else, should prioritize their health. The three plates we should always keep spinning, he argued, are health, family, and, of course, writing. He advocates for finding harmony.

In my experience, creativity comes in overwhelming cacophonies followed by excruciating silence.

The best (or worst) example of this would be the semester I completed my undergraduate thesis. I’m incredibly proud of Amethyst the Assassin to this day, and I even won a thousand-dollar prize for it. But it pushed me to the brink.

I neglected assignments from most of my other classes to focus all my attention on my thesis. This was spring semester of 2020, so my professors were exceptionally accommodating with deadlines. If I was shown less leniency, my grades would have suffered.

My social life was unaffected, if only because I didn’t have one, but I’m sure my roommate was annoyed with me for click-clacking away all hours of the night.

But the most frightening signs of my growing obsession were hidden.

Nothing felt as important, as real to me as the world I was creating.

I woke up with my heart pounding, frantic about finishing the story. I had an awful sense of being haunted by my work, as if the characters shadowed me, never giving me a moment’s peace. I started hearing voices. My grasp on reality was slipping.

After finishing that thesis, it took months for me to even be able to think about working on ATA again. I was terrified of having another episode like that, or maybe experiencing something worse.

I didn’t write much at all the summer after graduating. Writing, which had once been escape for me, now seemed like something I needed to escape from.

Eventually, I reached some sort of equilibrium, but I’m always worried about upsetting it.

I’ve had a much weaker echo of that undergrad experience recently. After a phenomenally productive November and December, I’ve spent most of January in a state of malaise. I haven’t made as much progress as I’ve demanded on myself. I’ve been sloppy with my schedule.

I’ve gotten rid of the dandelions, but I haven’t exactly gone about replanting the gardens they devastated.

Is it possible for someone like me to maintain my health and my writing, or will I always be forced to choose? What choice do I even make?

What would you choose?

***

I plan to have a new book review out on Wednesday, and my video essay on John Green posted to YouTube next Sunday.

If I do, I will likely be too busy to make a Constellations post that week, but I’m pretty behind on scripting and filming, so I might put out a shorter video just to give myself another week. Either way, stay tuned!

1. I talked about this directly in last week’s Constellations and metaphorically in the poem “A Memoir in Spiders.” ↩︎