WHAT A WRITER’S DAY FEELS LIKE
I wake up with a gnawing sensation of dissatisfaction. Already I feel fear. Already the loved ones around me are starting to fade. I interact. I’m present. But I’m not.
I’m not thinking about the work. I’ve already consigned that to the Muse. What I am aware of is Resistance. I feel it in my guts. I afford it the utmost respect, because I know it can defeat me on any given day as easily as the need for a drink can overcome an alcoholic
I go through the chores, the correspondence, the obligations of daily life. Again I’m there but not really. The clock is running in my head; I know I can indulge in daily crap for a little while, but I must cut it off when the bell rings.
I’m keenly aware of the Principle of Priority, which states (a) you must know the difference between what is urgent and what is important, and (b) you must do what’s important first.
What’s important is the work. That’s the game I have to suit up for. That’s the field on which I have to leave everything I’ve got.
Do I really believe that my work is crucial to the planet’s survival? Of course not. But it’s as important to me as catching that mouse is to the hawk circling outside my window. He’s hungry. He needs a kill. So do I.
I’m done with my chores now. It’s time. I say my prayer and head out on the hunt.
The sun isn’t up yet; it’s cold; the fields are sopping. Brambles scratch my ankles, branches snap back in my face. The hill is a sonofabitch but what can you do? Set one foot in front of another and keep climbing.
An hour passes. I’m warmer now, the pace has got my blood going. The years have taught me one skill: how to be miserable. I know how to shut up and keep humping. This is a great asset because it’s human, the proper role for a mortal. It does not offend the gods, but elicits their intercession. My bitching self is receding now. The instincts are taking over. Another hour passes. I turn the corner of a thicket and there he is: the nice fat hare I knew would show up if I just kept plugging.
Home from the hill, I thank the immortals and offer up their portion of the kill. They brought it to me; they deserve their share. I am grateful.
I joke with my kids beside the fire. They’re happy; the old man has brought home the bacon. The old lady’s happy; she’s cooking it up. I’m happy; I’ve earned my keep on the planet, at least for this day.
Resistance is not a factor now. I don’t think of the hunt and I don’t think of the office. The tension drains from my neck and back. What I feel and say and do this night will not be coming from any disowned or unresolved part of me, any part corrupted by Resistance.
I go to sleep content, but my final thought is of Resistance. I will wake up with it tomorrow. Already I am steeling myself.
作家的一天是什么样的
我一觉醒来，心中有一种强烈的不满。我已经感到恐惧了。我身边的亲人已经开始逐渐淡出我的世界。
我不是在想工作。我已经把它交给缪斯女神了。我所知道的是抵抗。我的直觉告诉我。我非常尊敬它，因为我知道它在任何一天都能击败我，就像需要一杯酒可以战胜一个酒鬼一样容易。
我要处理家务、信件、日常生活的琐事。我又来了，但不是真的。时钟在我的脑海里转动;我知道我可以在日常生活中放纵一段时间，但我必须在铃声响起的时候把它切断。
我敏锐地意识到优先原则，即(a)你必须知道什么是紧急的和什么是重要的，(b)你必须先做重要的事。
重要的是工作。这是我必须要做的游戏。这是我必须把所有精力都放在上面的事情。
我真的相信我的工作对地球的生存至关重要吗?当然不是。但这对我来说就像抓老鼠对在我窗外盘旋的老鹰一样重要。他是饿了。他需要杀人。我也一样。
我做完家务了。是时间了。我祈祷着，然后出发去打猎。
太阳还没升起;很冷;田野被浸透了。荆棘划伤了我的脚踝，树枝在我脸上折断。这座山非常荒凉，但你能做什么呢?把一只脚放在另一只脚前面，继续攀登。
一个小时过去了。我现在暖和多了，节奏让我热血沸腾。这些年来我学会了一项技能:如何让自己痛苦。我知道该怎样闭嘴，继续胡闹。这是一笔巨大的财富，因为它是人，是凡人应有的角色。它不会冒犯神，但会招致神的代祷。我的怨气正在消退。直觉正在接管一切。一个小时过去了。我转过灌木丛的角落，他就在那儿:我认识的那只可爱的肥野兔，只要我继续努力，就会出现的。
从山上回家后，我感谢神仙们，并将他们的那部分猎物献上。他们把它带给我;他们应该得到自己的一份。我很感激。
我和孩子们在火边开玩笑。他们很高兴;那位老人已养家糊口。老妇人很高兴;她在胡思乱想。我很高兴;我已经赢得了我在这个星球上的存在，至少今天是这样。
现在抵抗不是一个原因了。我不想打猎，也不想办公室。紧张感从我的脖子和后背消失了。我今天晚上的感觉、所说和所做的不会来自于我身上任何被否认或未解决的部分，任何被抵抗侵蚀的部分。
我睡着了，但我最后的想法是抵抗。明天我会带着它醒来。我已经在锻炼自己了。
