Concussion Discussion

Some days we show up to write, and our muse just doesn’t want to cooperate. We can’t seem to drum up the inspiration, the energy, or the right words to get down the sentences we dream of capturing.

Other times, your brain is the problem. Because you’re concussed. Or maybe that’s just me.

A few weeks ago, I was playing with my kids in the backyard (thank God it’s backyard season again). One of their toys got flung up onto the low roof leading into our basement. I went to lift my six year old son up to reach the toy just as he jumped, and the top of his head crashed into the bottom of my chin.

Immediately, my head and jaw ached. I went to sit down to recover. “I feel like I got a concussion,” I said, not serious, but my head felt weird, especially to be hurting more than my chin did.

The following morning, I uncharacteristically woke up before 5 a.m. and decided to get a little writing in before the house woke up. I poured myself a mug of coffee, settled in at my desk, and opened the laptop. I was feeling pretty proud of myself! Getting to write earlier than usual. But as I tried to focus on the words I had written the previous day, they seemed to swim and melt across the page.

What was going on? Did I need my eyes checked? (Probably, yes, but that’s a separate issue.) Was I not awake enough to focus?

My head started hurting and my stomach was off. I felt nauseous and had to close the computer screen.

Later that day, the doctor confirmed I likely had a concussion. They told me to avoid screens—phones, TV, computer—and reading (gasp!) for 4-5 days. No, but seriously, what are you supposed to do if you can’t read, work, or watch anything?

The writing tip? Yes, I promise that’s coming.

So despite the screen ban, I had recently picked back up the novel draft I’d abandoned back in December (closing in on 65k words now!), and I was really itching to write. And you writers know, if the muse is calling, you better show up for it. (And also, you need to show up when it’s abandoned you entirely too, but that’s for another post).

My creative solution? I opened up the manuscript doc on my computer and started to type—just without looking at the screen. I stared out the window instead at my lovely lilac bushes and the little local finches hoping about its branches as I typed away. And what would you know? I doubled my typical word count in 30 minutes of writing.

I was so pleased with this! If you’ve ever taken a novel writing class with me you know I’m big on really riding the coattails of momentum in order to finish a first draft. Getting it down as expeditiously as possible if often a writer’s best bet. So this was good news.

The next day, I tried it again. And same word count. Granted, I’m a fast typer in general. But this was exciting. I’ve been trying to keep it up even now that I’m unconcussed, and it’s hard to do—not to watch the letters, the words forming on the screen as you type, but it really frees you up to just exist solely in that imagined world, when you’re not watching your screen.

Give it a try! Blindfold yourself! Stare into your neighbor’s apartment or at the wall! And start typing. Let me know how it goes.

UPDATES:

*As we approach the summer season here, my availability for one-on-one writing support is limited. If you’d like to book a coaching spot or developmental edit to commit to your writing more seriously this summer, reach out by June 15!

Creativity Through the Senses for this week:

See: My sister got me hooked on Off Campus like much of my social media feed apparently. Why do these type of YA shows seem to be so nostalgically seductive for millennials such as myself?

Hear: I’ve been listening to Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act. I recommend it for you writers. A lot of what he has to say about the creative life I already know intuitively, but it’s a nice philosophical reminder of why acts of creativity are vital to us humans.

Smell: The earthy, mellow eau de grass clippings in the yard. It reminds me of my childhood summers, always accompanied by the steady buzz of lawn mowers.

Taste: The fresh bitter bite of a mint leaf plucked from the vegetable/herb garden I’ve yet to officially replant this year. My daughter eats them by the handful.

Touch: The smooth petals of the flowers on our azalea bush. “Feel this,” my daughter instructs, and then, “smell this,” she says. “Ah, it smells so nice. Just like a baby salamander.”