Don't Let Temporary Ruin Your Writing (Michelle Intro) (05/15/2021)

A recap of the week's writing at Atticus Review. Intro by Michelle Ross.

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For about a decade I’ve had a room of my own in the home I share with my husband and son, a room that has been first and foremost my writing space. Having this space all to myself, a room with a door I can close, and on occasion, lock, has been essential to my writing and to my wellbeing. Like many writers, I’m an introvert who feels energized by solitude. Rarely can I write when other people are around. I can jot down notes in a journal, but forming sentences and paragraphs feels impossible. I feel distracted. I feel anxious. I’m used to sharing my writing space with some non-writing activities. I pay utility bills at the same desk at which I write. I answer emails and read Atticus Review submissions. But these other tasks are later-in-the-day activities. It’s easy enough to keep them out of my mind during my writing time. Then the pandemic began, and my employer “temporarily” closed the office and sent us all home to work remotely for a few weeks. Overnight, my writing office became also my work office. My writing desk became also my work desk. In the beginning of the pandemic, I was too distracted reading the news in the mornings to write regularly anymore. But eventually, as my company extended the time the office would remain closed—at first, a few weeks, then months—I more or less adapted to the new situation. I returned to writing in the mornings before work, my office transitioning back and forth from a writing space to a work space every day. Not only was I writing and working at the same desk, I did both these tasks on the same computer. The situation wasn’t ideal, but I assured myself that it was temporary. Then at the start of 2021, a job promotion meant I suddenly had a lot more work stuff to manage—more papers, more online documents, more work stuff in my head. Work became like kudzu, rapid growing and sprawling. It was quickly stifling my writing life. When I entered my office in the early mornings, I found the desk crowded by notepads and sticky notes, my computer cluttered with work documents and windows. Too often I found myself launching straight into work without having written anything. I told myself that this too was temporary. Now, the lease for the office I had commuted to every weekday for years is ending, and my employer announced recently that they will not renew, meaning that working remotely from home is here to stay. I had a decision to make. I could continue telling myself that my situation was temporary and that I’d get back to a more routine writing practice "later" or I could take action now and rescue my smothered writing life.So, two weeks ago, I moved furniture around, and I squeezed a second desk into my home office. This second desk is tiny compared to my other desk. It’s a no-frills desk—no drawers, not enough surface area for much of anything but a keyboard, mouse, monitor, and my mug of coffee. In other words, it’s a perfect writing desk. Not much room for distractions. “Temporary” is a word that I and my pandemic buddy, the one friend I continued to see regularly, have been using like a mantra. It’s a coping word. It’s a balm in situations that are outside our locus of control.But what the disruptions to my writing space and practice this past year have reminded me is that “temporary” can be a tricky word, too. It’s stretchy, and if you let it, it will stretch toward permanence.Thanks for reading. We're glad you're here. Michelle RossFiction Editor

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THIS WEEK AT ATTICUS

FICTIONIN THE POOL AT THE LALA MOTELby Francine Witte"And the honeymoon. One of those pay-by-the-hour places just out of town. Charley mixed up the Mai-tai from a gas station packet."READ ON

POETRYBLOOMING OUT OF NOWHEREby Trivarna Hariharan"Sunlight isonly collectingemptiness. How it spillsover cobblestones—singeing, post-cardstamping them."READ ON

CREATIVE NONFICTIONWARby Ari FitzGibbon"The boys look around at each other, then bring up their guns in tandem and point them at your heart, uttering another chorus of pew-pews."READ ON

CREATIVE NONFICTIONGIRL IN A CARPORTby Jesse Lee Kercheval"There is no snapshot of this. And yet there is. This moment still exists—as all time does, time in motion an illusion. I am there. I am here. Sixty years later and still it is summer."READ ON

MIXED MEDIAINDISTINCT CHATTERby Paul Henson"This poem and film, taken together, revolves around fantastical notions of escaping the all pervasive digital noise that surrounds us in everyday life. The title "Indistinct Chatter" is a phrase that appears on subtitled TV shows and movies, stated to describe a kind of brief, nondescript bustle, a barely perceptible wall of swirling whispers. So "our" indistinct chatter is almost a chaotic respite of sorts from the ordered performance of our online personas."READ ON

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