In Praise of Idleness
In my last post, I pussy-footed around the problem of the source of one’s ideas. This week I discovered something that shed new light on the subject. Nora Bradford’s article in Quanta Magazine—“What Your Brain Is Doing When You’re Not Doing Anything”— is about the default mode of brain functions.
“What the hell is that?” you ask.
It’s what the brain does when it’s not consciously working on something more demanding. At one point, the article states:
According to research, the effects of the default mode network include mind wandering, remembering past experiences, thinking about others’ mental states, envisioning the future, and processing language.
That sounds suspiciously like writing, doesn’t it?
It also explains why my best ideas have occurred during idle, even dozing, moments. It also suggests that I have yet another reason to agree with my old hero, Bertrand Russell, who wrote In Praise of Idleness.
Excuse me while settle down into the Lazy-Boy for a while…
The excerpt, below, is from How to Write a Great Book—which is not really a how-to book, but an account of how other writers did it. One chapter addresses the two primary choices available to writers—strategies that helped them stay alive long enough to write their great books. While there is some justification for thinking that this has nothing to do with today’s subject, be patient. The Tristram-Shandyesque digressions might, just possibly, lead to something relevant.
Or, then again, maybe not.
Extreme Frugality
On first glance, this doesn’t sound all that appealing. Especially the not eating part. When the young Hemingway was living in Paris, unable to sell anything after abandoning journalism—a job that actually paid—for “real” writing, he acquired an intimate knowledge of hunger. He often created elaborate routes to avoid encountering anything that reminded him of food. In Paris, I suspect that this required higher-order mathematical thinking, possibly involving four-dimensional topology, and some familiarity with the budding science of quantum physics.
In the process, Hemingway found that an unappeased appetite noticeably sharpened his perception—especially of Cezanne’s paintings (which, not coincidentally, often included a ripe piece of fruit).
Extreme frugality has worked out for some pretty successful writers (at least if one considers only artistic, rather than financial, success).
Homer, like most poets of his day, had no fixed abode. He traveled from town to town, much like his Odysseus, letting the muses sing through him in exchange for room and board. This may still be possible, but let us face the fact that folks, today, are less interested in inviting strangers—especially unkempt literary types—into their homes than they once did. Regular people (non-writers) also have alternative forms of entertainment that makes the performances of the itinerant slingers of belles lettres somewhat less attractive than they once were.
A more recent example of the homeless author was Will Cuppy, author of such classics as How to Become Extinct, How to Tell Your Friends from the Apes, How to Attract the Wombat, and, more on our topic, How to Be a Hermit, or a Bachelor Keeps House. You, being the astute reader you must be, will note that the book in your hands has something in common with several of Cuppy’s books.
They’re all how-to books.
The truly astute will suppose, even more correctly, that there is not much useful do-it-yourself info to be found in any of them.
Nonetheless, the last book on Cuppy’s list explains how he managed to be a master of the extreme frugality category. While you—no doubt—are dangling from tenterhooks of curiosity and a wild surmise, you’ll have to wait to learn more about that until the chapter “Where to Write a Great Book.”
Be Supported
Choice number two is clearly the most popular—and not just because it allows for the highest degree of laziness (a not-insignificant consideration; much of what writers do looks suspiciously like wool-gathering, with long, vacant stares that don’t appear to be associated with any mental activity whatsoever). Let’s tactfully avoid discussing the possibility that those soulful vacant stares are just that (vacant, not soulful), and move on.
After James Thurber became completely blind, he composed his stories in his head. Occasionally, his “...daughter [would] look up from the dinner table and ask, ‘Is he sick?’” but his wife would reply, “No... he’s writing something.’”
Paid subscribers to these substack pages get access to complete editions of two of my novellas. Noirvella is a modern story of revenge, told in the style of film noir. Unbelievable is a kind of rom-com that forms around a pompous guy who is conceited, misinformed, and undeservedly successful. Both books are sold by Amazon, but paid subscribers get them for free!
Also, substack pages (older than eight months) automatically slip behind a paywall—so only paid subscribers can read them. If you’re interested in reading any of them, you can subscribe, or wait until they are re-released in book form (something I’m in the process of considering).
Meanwhile, it is easy to become a paying subscriber (just like supporting your favorite NPR station). It’s entirely optional, and—even if you choose not to do so—you’ll continue to get my regular substack posts—and I’ll still be happy to have you as a reader.