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Tuesday morning was a rare bird: I was walking to the kitchen to make a coffee when I suddenly smiled unexpectedly. I stopped in place to figure out what was happening. Why this weird feeling? Why did my chest feel so light? Then it struck me, a realization that this is all I need to do right now. Work-wise, there’s usually a lot underway. Currently, it’s four magazine articles, an essay for a book, a part-time job editing and writing someone else’s manuscript, plus two larger projects in their beginning stages and then all the stuff I do at The Morning News, especially at this time of year as we prepare for next winter’s Tournament of Books. But I woke up Tuesday and figured out, apart from some emails, I could spend almost zero minutes on any of those things, and instead could focus on the novel manuscript I’ve been picking up and putting down for about a year-plus. Wild! But the thing (the manuscript) isn’t what’s interesting to me here. I’d forgotten how good to feels to single-task. Whole focus. Full attention. Going under the spell. I made the coffee, went back to my desk, and my mind felt like it could go anywhere. I didn’t check the phone. I daydreamed when I liked. An hour or two later, maybe three, I went back to the kitchen for a snack and my attention didn’t waver; it’s like the whole apartment, each room I passed through, had become an extension of my imagination, the inner chamber externalized. Back in my twenties and thirties, I remember feeling proud of my ability to multitask. It served me well when I was teaching, or managing a team, or working all hours on multiple gigs. But it interfered with deeper thinking and feeling; if anything, it enabled me to avoid deeper thinking/feeling, because I could justify putting those things off, on account of the many things needing (in my estimation) to be done. When I teach, I counsel writing students to give themselves a break. First, to take it easy on themselves, in order to avoid discouragement. I also say they should take a break from distraction: turn off the Wifi, hide the phone, sit with the impatience and discouragement when they appear. But all that advice is easier given than accepted. And I forget sometimes that “busy” doesn’t equal “occupied”, or better yet: “inhabited.” Because that’s how Tuesday morning felt: a long moment to fully inhabit myself. I do still have all my systems for organizing projects, which is another way of saying managing anxiety. Scheduled reminders, research folders, lists on lists on lists. Physical things like long walks, Buspirone, tennis. Most important of all, conversations and time spent with people I love, and perhaps that’s there where things here combine: when I’m with another person (or simply myself) and fully engaged, the volume of the experience expands. It’s occupation instead of pre-occuption? And kind of a step out of time. ð“€ In tomorrow’s supplement, three-plus “cool” things for “members”
Join the club and enjoy great culture, fashion picks, travel gear, and good stuff generally. ❀ Hey, if you’re a writer looking for help—editing, coaching, brainstorm magic—I recommend collaborating with editor Rachel Knowles. Rachel has helped me a lot, not to mention plenty of other writers—novelists, screenwriters, Substack-ers, the gamut. Lots more info at her website. What the what“Meditations in an Emergency” is a weekly essay from author Rosecrans Baldwin about something beautiful. Paying subscribers receive a Sunday supplement with three-plus things to love, plus a monthly travel-lust ballyhoo. Rosecrans is a correspondent for GQ, a contributor at Travel + Leisure, and the bestselling author of Everything Now, winner of the California Book Award. Other books include The Last Kid Left and Paris, I Love You but You’re Bringing Me Down. His debut novel, You Lost Me There, was a New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice. For magazine articles, bio, contact info: rosecransbaldwin.com. Disclaimer: if you buy something using a link from one of these meditations, I may receive a commission from Bezos Farms.
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