I’ve spent the better part of last week and this week sneezing, sniffling and sick from the flu.
And while I’m finally looking at the tail end of my misery at this moment, I am struck by how one single thing made my ordeal a thousand times worse.
We’ve all been sick in some way, shape or form before. We know what it’s like to experience that first sense of foreboding that signals we are coming down with something. And then follows the sharp upward trajectory as what afflicts us takes hold. We are immobilised, unable to do anything but cower under the covers and wait for the worst to pass.
And after a few days, it does pass. You feel the invasion being held at bay, then slowly being defeated, as the body marshals together all its defence mechanisms. At this point, you are past the ‘feeling truly awful’ stage, but still not able to resume normal duties and life.
This is actually the sweet spot, the silver lining, insofar as any ailment can be said to have one. I’ve always looked forward to hitting this particular phase. This is the point at which, while my reduced abilities hold life and all the responsibilities that come with it at bay, my ability to indulge myself in pleasurable activities meant to pass the time is resurgent.
When I was younger, this meant staying at home from school and reading, or more likely, re-reading all my favourite books. As I grew older, technology provided more options. The reading was interspersed with binge watching movies, TV, playing video games, all the things a restless mind trapped in a temporarily out-of-service body might need to distract itself from the ennui of recovery.
So it came as no surprise that I was looking forward to hit the sweet spot yet again, in the course of my current affliction. According to my calculations based on past data, it would arrive on the fourth day after the onset. And it did arrive, at the end of last week.
It was a disaster. And the reason it was a disaster was because I couldn't write.
Open any book on writing, and one of the first things, if not the first thing it will tell you, is the importance of making writing a daily activity. Writers should write every day, without fail, as this enables the mind to settle into a habit of writing. It primes the creative pump to generate output on demand.
And you know what? It’s advice that really works.
I find a distinct improvement in the way I approach writing, especially writing first drafts, if I have been religiously sticking to a daily routine and regimen. It does become easier to enter the ‘writing zone’ to pick up a strand of thought about a story that’s still fresh in my mind from yesterday. Somehow the Muse buys into this daily zealousness and starts showing up everyday, when you want her to, rather than staying silent even as you grow hoarse shouting for her to make an appearance.
This habit, as is the nature of all habits, is very hard to form, and very easy to derail and subvert. All it takes is a couple of days of falling off the writing wagon, and you are back at the base of the mountain, mournfully gazing up at all the hard won elevation lost. It is extremely frustrating to be thrown off your game by the intervention of a few potent germs.
When I hit the sweet spot this time, my mind, as usual, was ready to indulge in all its favourite past times. What it was still unable to do was to focus and concentrate enough to get words on the page.
And so, what I got, instead of healthy distraction, was guilt. Guilt I couldn't write, guilt I was eroding the foundations of a habit I had struggled so long for to create in the first place, guilt I was somehow violating the sacred code of this Guild I now belonged to - the Guild of writers and artists and creative people everywhere.
This guilt made it well near impossible to enjoy all those mindless activities that were so much the whole point of this recovery phase in the past. I was aware only of time passing by without anything getting done and deadlines hurtling closer.
I tried to rationalise things. I decided since reading is a big part of a writer’s life, I should feel absolutely no guilt in reading. After all, it was almost like a form of homework, wasn't it? The problem with this rationale is that when you’re ill, you really don’t have it in you to concentrate on high literature. The spectacular phrasing, the intense drama, the deep allegories, they all fall by the wayside in the wake of a brain tempered with high temperatures. What you want to read is something quick and easy, the trashier the better. And this kind of reading cannot be called legitimate homework for any writer.
There was nothing else to be done other than wait for the onset of full recovery, which happened a couple of days later. I was finally able to get on with the writing, and while the guilt of falling behind remained, it became easier to manage. At least now I was doing something about it.
I have to befriend this guilt, I’ve realised. If I am to stay true to my craft, I am going to have to accept its presence in my life, not just when I’m ill, but all those times when I’m doing something else instead of doing the work.
And I have to realise the good it does. For all the misery it causes, there is this to be said. Getting back to the creative, ruminative, immensely satisfying act of writing after being dosed with a smattering of guilt gives rise to a sense of relief and purpose, a redoubling of energy and passion, and a desire to make up for time lost. And the work, and the writer are both the better for it.