As a teacher on lockout, there’s very little to do, very few places to be. The same goes for writing, though the places I’m expected when working as a writer are not the classroom or the hallways, but those little areas in my brain where synapses signal but never touch. I’m expected to be thinking all the time as a writer, but when was the last time I sat and thought?
While driving, I’m either singing or paying attention to the road. While showering, I’m either singing or paying attention to getting clean. Any other time, I’m listening to something, watching something, or checking my phone as I’m doing things. Though I’m by myself, I’m very seldom with myself.
And I know I’m not writing much and that’s because of a series of excuses I could make into numerical points to make this a more readable blog post, but I’m also not thinking much like a writer. And is it fair to be concerned about that? Are there other jobs that ask for so much? Are scientists always supposed to be observing and hypothesizing; can philosophers take a day off? Because what if I was an accountant. What if I was a clown.
I went into teaching because I thought teaching and writing would be mutually inclusive. I thought they might even complement each other. But are teacher and writer both too pervasive of professions? Am I ever going to have a day off? Even now, as I sit waiting for the government to negotiate on the things that matter for kids and teachers, I am not taking the time to write. And still, it’s as though I’m waiting for something to change to allow me to write.
Nothing will change. I don’t need anything to change. I need to write in any condition. No one is going to provide me with those conditions; no one will sit down at the bargaining table with me. I could never go on strike as a writer because where would I put my picket line? Next to my desk? My brain?