From the Trenches: Abigail Stone
I know, I KNOW. It looks like I’m grocery shopping — but I’m actually working, thoughts on the classic wfh dilemma
Although I have a home office, I don’t often use it. Most of the time, you’ll find me on the couch, knees up or legs thrown over the back cushion, laptop angled up against my thighs. Sometimes — I’m on deadline; it’s raining; I’ve got a day free of appointments and interviews in an otherwise jam-packed week — I’ll call it a pajama day and write from bed. Friends who know something about the physiognomy of the body scold me for writing supine. But I’m comfortable. More importantly though, even though I write at home, even though I may be writing from bed, even though this is the place I also eat and sleep, I’m actually not at home. I’m at the office. Huh?
Let me explain. Writing, unlike what you may have discerned from the media, is work. Sometimes, of course, it’s great. Something sparks an idea and I’m off, pounding away at the computer. But most of the time, it’s not like that. Most of time, I’m fiddling with words, trying out synonyms. Inspired or not, I show up every morning, open my laptop…and start. I liken it to waiting at the bus stop for someone to arrive. Sometimes the muse shows up, sometimes she doesn’t, but every day, at the same time, I’m there waiting. In my case, after a large milky latte, I open up the computer a little after 6 am, and start my pomodoro time. After four pomodoros, I take a break to check emails and stretch, then I crank through another four pomodoros. It’s time for another break and a quick lunch, and then back to work. Sure, it’s great to be at home. I don’t have to spend money on lunches out. I can do a load of laundry during a break, I have the freedom to schedule a doctor’s appointment for the middle of the day without running it by someone. I can head to the grocery store midday when the aisles are empty. But here’s the thing: just because I don’t go to an office, it doesn’t mean I’m not working.
Everyone knows I write. But, somehow, I’m the first person people call if they need an errand done or they just feel like chatting in the middle of the day. I get it. I’m at home. Right? I don’t have a boss looking over my shoulder. I can do what I want when I want. But see, that’s the thing. While working from home may look as if it’s all bonbons and scheduling massages in the middle of the day, what you learn is that it still runs on a clock. But, instead of someone — a boss — or something — a clock — telling you what to do, your inner rhythms, the ebb and flow of energy, dictates the best and most productive time for different kinds of work. Fine tuning that flow so that it works becomes a meticulous game of mental Jenga. Sometimes, although it looks like I’m taking a walk, I’m actually writing. The same with napping or picking out vegetables at the farmer’s market or driving to the beach or cooking. These seemingly mindless chores, which I’ve learned through trial and error to slot into my day, allow the creative part of my mind to sort out the thing I’ve been wrestling with. It’s not unusual, when I’m stuck on how to word a particularly challenging concept, to lace up my running shoes and go. I get back to the house physically winded but creatively energized, whole sentences, whole paragraphs, whole pages even, churning through my brain. Flow is the scientific term, and the words do seem to do just that. I’m not sure how it works; if I did, I’d conjure it up at will. Instead, through years of writing regularly, through many mornings of just showing up, I’ve discovered what I need to do to set up the circumstances for it to start working. Sometimes, of course, the muse just skips my stop that day. That’s just how it is. I try not to get too stressed out about it, trusting that if it didn’t happen today, it’ll happen tomorrow. And tomorrow, I'm back at it. So don’t ask me to pick up your dry cleaning, I’m working. It only looks like I’m making the bed.