Once or twice a year, my fitness instructor tells the class to take a week off to let our bodies recover. I only do three workouts a week, but they’re pretty intense, so I get it. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. I’m not a slacker and hate sitting around, even when it’s good for me. It drives me crazy. But the most recent week off gave me extra time to get things done at home, and one project in particular stands out above the rest: finishing my second novel.
We all know the old adage about the brain being a muscle. Like the muscles in our body, it needs plenty of exercise, or it’s going to get soft. If my body has to sit around ‘recovering,’ I figured I might as well give my stagnating brain a good hard workout.
Unfortunately, I kept getting snagged by little problems I hadn’t noticed while writing the bulk of the book. I’d like to say I’ve put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into it, but that’s not quite accurate—more like a lot of ripped-out hair and internal screaming. The timelines were just not working out.
But with all that extra time on my hands, I had one day that week entirely free of obligations and decided to make the most of it. I was going to iron out those timeline issues and finish the darn book. Charts were drawn up. New timelines were arranged. Those new timelines were rearranged. Then re-rearranged. I pulled up my hand-drawn map of my silly made-up world and estimated distances and travel times for the journeys of my various characters.
It was all a bust.
The more I tried, the worse the chronology issues got. But I’m not a slacker, so I kept at it. I gave that muscle in my skull the workout of a lifetime. I ate my scant meals in front of my laptop. I glared at my charts and timetables from sunup to sundown. As much as I wanted to relax on my favorite recliner with a good book, take a stroll through the woods, play my guitar, or get some dishes done, I wouldn’t give in to the urge. I was not going to let myself get distracted.
Nothing came of all this effort, but you can’t say I didn’t try.
Furious and frustrated, I closed my laptop, shelved my stacks of notes, and retreated to the shower. A whole day of relentless effort, wasted. While I stood there in the hot water, working shampoo suds into my scalp like a mini brain massage for my weary head, I relaxed a little and let my mind wander for the first time that day.
Then the answer hit me.
Remember that moment in Flatland when the two-dimensional narrator is pulled up into the third dimension and sees the whole of his world at once? Yeah, it was a little like that. Everything was so clear to me! No, not all the chronology problems are solved, but the largest piece of the puzzle is now in place. The rest should come easily.
Now I’m thinking back on the occasions I came up with my best ideas. I wasn’t pondering the elements of storytelling or researching the craft of writing. Nor was I glowering at maps and timetables. I was elbow-deep in dishwater. I was playing my guitar or letting my mind wander as I took a stroll through the woods. I was relaxing on my favorite recliner with a good book. I was distracted.
Weird. It’s almost like the more I force my brain out of Dreamland, the less I dream.
I’m hardly suggesting that writing is best done through lounging around and daydreaming any more than I’m saying physical fitness can be attained by skipping the gym. A week of being sedentary wouldn’t do anything for my body if I had no workouts to recover from, and I’d never finish any stories if I didn’t force myself to keep writing when I wasn’t in the mood for it, or if I didn’t draw up all those maps, outlines, and timetables. I’m sure I don’t have to tell any of you how much difficult work is involved in bringing the dreams in your head to life. But running your brain through a mental laundry mangle isn’t going to produce the results you want either. You’re just going to wring all the passion and imagination out of yourself.
So, yeah. The brain is a muscle that needs regular exercise to be in peak condition. But just like muscles in the body, it needs rest and recovery. As much as I hate to admit it, there are benefits to being a slacker.