Getting Ducks in a Row

Even though I love to write, my octopus mind does take over at times. When it whirs on a variety of levels at once, I multi-task with all tentacles in play.  I can spend hours free writing but often it takes creative diversion and determination to dig out the gems I wish to shine.
 

Then I read an article in The Atlantic entitled “First Person Plural” by Paul Bloom that provided an Aha moment.

In their pursuit of what happiness means, psychologists have discovered it has a lot to do with the definition of “I.”  Many believe each of us exists in a community of competing selves where the happiness of one often causes the misery of another. Paul Bloom, a professor of psychology at Yale, feels that within each brain several selves continually pop in and out of existence.  He says, “They have different desires, and they fight for control – plotting against, deceiving and plotting against one another.”

Yes, I’ve held conversations with another Penny at times.  I’ve even argued.  Okay Okay. I will. I will.  No. No. No.  Stop it. Stop it right now! Oh, Come on. Come on. Also, I’ve used more emphatic words not appropriate here, but you get the idea.

Bloom goes on to say if these selves worked as a team, they could create the perfect life. Because they clash, compulsions and addictions arise.

His concerns remind me of the self-talk that goes into my writing life. One of my selves just wants to go outside and play, not sit at the computer and face a deadline or follow as an idea ravels out. Another follows a disciplined daily routine. Yet another wants to read and eat words. I have used trickery many times.  Now I realize I have tamed my selves . . . or not, according to Bloom.

A division of labor could become a solution. Maybe if some of my selves write poetry, some grade papers, others focus on new projects, then I’d have more freedom?  If they have fun and discover happiness in their own separate pursuits, I could have polite and rational conversations with them.

The first step in any addiction requires naming it. I'll call the selves: Huey, Dewey and Louie, for Duck's sake. They need to get into a row.  I'll give them separate clipboards.  They can work on an illusive poem, finish the essay or leap up and grade student work.  Tom Sawyer politics work.

I can see their heads bobbing, feathers awriggle and eyes flashing with creativity. Although the site of pens clutched in web feet feels like a stretch. I could design an opposable thumb or two for the ends of wings. Then I will sneak away as I hear them chattering between writing notions.  They will find security and happiness with their own projects and feel no competition or alienation. 

Now, wind in my hair as I run by the ocean, my octopus mind twirls without the interruption of the duck conversations. They stay and write at home.

Creative Write: How do you make your writing selves obey?