The Elements of Stifle

I have been re-reading Strunk & White (Third Edition) in bits and pieces before bed.  A lot of it is outdated, but it’s a fun read.  I disagree with parts, and think many of its rules are obsolete or overly formal, but the delivery is wonderful.  I can imagine Professor Strunk standing in the corner glowering at me as I write this, tightly gripping a reedy switch that he will strike down upon my ear the moment her perceives weak prose on my monitor.  It’s also full of puns.  Whatever criticism has been leveled against the guide is probably valid, but the authors are adamant throughout that it is indeed just a guide—a collection of signposts, really.  We’re not supposed to take it too seriously.

Re-reading The Elements of Style has temporarily (given my history, extremely temporarily) reinvigorated my interest in writing on a regular basis and maybe even for some legitimate purpose.  I always enjoy going back years later and reading the ridiculous things I wrote.  (Side note: To the authors, use of the connective that, as in “things that I wrote,” is discretionary.)  That was definitely true when I rediscovered the journal that I kept during my post-college wander around Europe. 

My primary motivation for writing during that trip was to stave off boredom.  It’s hard to believe, but I was bored stiff for large periods of time on that trip as I wandered in the heat with torn pants and third-day underwear, mostly due to a lack of planning and research and a belief that I wasn’t supposed to be spending any money.  I had some crazy times for sure, but I filled an extraordinary amount of useless, empty time by writing and taking up counter space.

Something similar motivates me today.  My job is not very demanding (I am what the newspapers call “underemployed”), and I have a tragic inability to grab a hold of my life by the back of the neck and force it to go anywhere at all, much like I had a tragic inability to sit down and learn the first thing about whatever city I found myself in during my ridiculous walkabout.  I have been thinking about how much time I am spending killing time at work—and lounging around once I get home—and it saddens me.  Which, in turn, further tramples my motivation to be somehow active and productive workwise.  (Another side note: Strunk & White actually recommend adding “-wise” to all kinds of nouns.) 

This is something I have struggled with my whole life and, once again, I have decided I must have a creative outlet which, if you are following me, is clearly just an elaborate way of avoiding what I am really supposed to be putting all of my energy into, i.e., finding a better job.  As a kid I spent entire beautiful East Coast summer days sitting on the worn-out foam chair in my bedroom in front of my little TV, half-watching Saved By the Bell or Lassie or something, and half-gazing out the window at the maple tree and the clear blue sky, feeling intensely depressed that I should be doing something, but doing nothing at all.

Yes, writing is, for the moment, an elaborate procrastination / responsibility avoidance / self-inflicted-boredom killing mechanism.  Perhaps admitting in writing that I am often incapable of mustering up and sustaining the motivation to improve my standing careerwise (this is my new thing now: everything is “-wise”), or finishing anything that I start, is a small step in the right direction.  I think I have finished this essay, at least.