I could hardly wait to sit down and finally get to work writing this little essay — the deadline is fast approaching and I have a delightful subject this week that I think you’ll enjoy — in fact it’s the kind of small, delicate subject that a skilled writer likes to hold up to the light as he would a jewel, turning it first this way then that, playfully allowing each unexpected facet to disclose itself in its own fashion, at its own pace, to the wry amusement of the reader, who in response feels those quiet little bursts of recognition and who, when he finishes the essay, senses that the world is somehow fresher than it was just a moment ago, somehow more alive, as though lit from within — and I was just about to do this when the mailman dropped the new issue of Backpacker magazine through the mail slot and it splayed on the floor in the entryway.
I seldom read Backpacker, having no interest in the outdoors. A friend gave us a subscription, though, as a present. And my kids seem to enjoy it. I went to pick it up — just to keep things tidy, because I can’t work if a room is messy — and before dropping it into the basket where we keep our magazines, I happened to flip through it and what do you know: an article on tick-borne diseases. In an amazing coincidence, tick-borne diseases is one topic I had never, ever had the slightest interest in reading an article about. I threw myself onto the sofa and instantly began reading. As it happens the article was predictably repellent, so after about an hour and a half I set the magazine aside and happily returned to my desk and to the subject that excites me at the moment and which, as I say, I think you’ll enjoy as well.
But first, I think I mentioned my feelings about work and tidiness. I simply cannot work amid clutter, sometimes. Across my desk were several — no, many more than several — colored pencils scattered higgledy piggledy, courtesy no doubt of my children, who I referred to earlier. I carefully returned the pencils to the pencil holder and then pulled them out again and lay them in a row according to length, sorting them by color also, when it became clear that a number of them needed to be sharpened. I can’t stand dull pencils. The pencil sharpener was downstairs, which is where I was headed when the radio started playing Schubert’s “Unfinished” Symphony. Schubert: an amazingly talented guy, right? A guy very dedicated to his craft, correct? Then why didn’t he finish the symphony? What gives with that? As luck would have it, several years ago I bought a book called The Lives of the Great Composers. I went back upstairs and fished around for it, finally laying hands on it in a dusty old box tucked beneath the crawl space. I thumbed my way through to the Schubert entry, and found the answer to my question. I’ve filed it away mentally, for an essay on Schubert I’m hoping to write pretty soon, probably after I finish this one.
When I returned to my desk I realized I’d forgotten to sharpen the darn pencils! Going back downstairs I was rethinking the subject of this essay when my mind offered up a really clever turn of phrase that I mean to use: Discussing pundits who always say “On the one hand, on the other hand,” I’m going to say, “Thank god there are no three-handed pundits!” Isn’t that good? I rushed back upstairs to jot it down. It’s difficult to convey the feeling of satisfaction a writer gets when these little jokes come to him unbidden — almost like finding that perfect subject for an essay, where the piece “just writes itself,” as we say. But there was still the problem of the dull pencils. Back downstairs I saw that my wife had been cleaning house. Next to the pencil sharpener she had stacked at least a dozen cookbooks. I arranged them first by size, then by cuisine, then alphabetically by author, and dusted off the shelf she’d removed them from. When I went to the basement to find more lemon Pledge, I couldn’t find it, although I did find several pairs of my kids’ old shoes. Such tiny feet they had! I admit I fell into a kind of reverie. Then, at last, after noticing my son’s basketball was deflated, searching for the air-pump, and reinflating the ball, as well as an old football and a volleyball that lay nearby, I eagerly headed back to work.
At my desk I put nose to grindstone. There are many magical moments in the writing life. You’re just sitting there and the words flow, and the writing and the subject matter become one, and it’s as though you the writer were a mere onlooker, a privileged witness to the act of creation. The pleasure is almost sensually intense. I can’t get enough. I mean it.
ANDREW FERGUSON
