The lull before the storm
Dateline: above the garage in Portsmouth RI, 2 January 2005
I will confess. I feel fairly lost when my spouse is gone from the house for a trip. It's weird, because I travel so much by myself and I never feel like that when I'm on the road. I mean, I miss her plenty and I miss the kids, but I never feel lost. If anything, I feel super-focused (go there, do that, get home!).
But when Vonne lights off for somewhere and I'm left with the kids (3 out of 4 this time, as baby went with her), I end up feeling a bit flabbergasted by the circumstance. What happens is that I get the house really organized and then I don't know what to do after that. I mean, when I'm working hard, I work hard because I know that if I don't get it done, I'll never get to picking up things around the house. But when everything's in order, and Em's minding young Jerry while Kevin is off at a friend's house, then I really don't know what to do with myself. So I start dicking around with little things, like I start fixing this bit of wallpaper that's come loose or I organize a closet or something. And my real work doesn't get done.
I hate being like that on some level, but I've come to understand that's how I am: give me an impossible load of things to do in a short time period, and I'll get them all done ahead of schedule and perform at peak content output, but give me lotsa time and no competing tasks, and I dissolve into meanderings and futzing around. My work ethic has always been rather manic-depressive: I'm either storming or hanging out. Deep down, I know that the hanging out typically reflects the desire to pre-think the material more before attacking.
And that's where I am with the book. I wrote the first book in about 40 days, cranking about 5k a day. This time I have the same block of time laid out, but I'm looking to pen half as much, and that's a bit problematic for my usual tendencies.
Upshot of all this: I think I'm going to rearrange the loft above the garage today while I listen to the Packers-Bears on the Internet. That's a perfect compliment to my day: meaningless game, futzing above the garage, waiting for Vonne to return, waiting to go into work tomorrow and submit my resignation (ah, the Freudian undercurrent), waiting to FEDEX my contract back to my agent on book two (the deal still awaits signatures from Putnam), and so on and so forth.
There's that feeling in the ocean when you're hanging in the surf near shore and the water starts disappearing around you because it's getting sucked up into the next really big wave that's about to pounce. There's something about that realization when it clicks in your mind: something really big is going to happen and you better watch out or you'll get hurt. The adrenaline starts to kick in automatically and you find yourself scrambling to prep the boogie board or surf board to catch the wave, pushing yourself to what you imagine will be the right spot—the sweet spot for take-off.
That's where I feel I am now. I can feel the undertow pull the water away, I feel the adrenaline building, I sense my mind scanning my personal horizon in an attempt to locate the sweet spot. I'm feeling both highly ambivalent and more than slightly pissed off. I feel like I don't have near enough material and that I have way too much—yet again! I feel like I'm ready to write and that I'm ready to put it off indefinitely.
Sometimes when I get like this I call Mark Warren, who deals with this all the time with writers. He always does the same thing: first he laughs about it, then he reminds me how everyone goes through this, and then he gets very passionate about why this book will be important and change both me and the world around—yet again!
But I'm getting fairly self-aware on this process, so I think I'll pass on bugging him today. Organizing the space up here will feel good. In movies and in real life, there's the actual conflict, and then there's the preparation for the actual conflict. For the former to be as important as it needs to be, the latter must extend as far as is necessary. When I'm really ready, I easily write 3,000 words before I take the kids to school, and it's usually the stuff that Mark edits least. When I'm not ready, I can usually crank about 2,000 words by 11pm and it's usually the stuff that Mark axes vehemently.
So today I prepare, and Wednesday, after Vonne returns Tuesday night, I start writing for real.
Looking over the Sunday Times, I saw more interesting possibilities and hopeful signs.
I like that oil executives are flooding Libya ("Libya Is Enticing U.S. Executives With Its Abundant Oil Reserves," by Jad Mouawad), because the more that idiot Qaddafi lets economic connectivity occur, the sooner his grip on power loosens. Only one-quarter of Libya has been explored for oil. Think they'll find more? All that activity will generate follow-on economic and social connectivity. Qaddafi is finally selling his revolutionary soul because, as with all such revolutions, his has failed to deliver on economic prosperity.
I like seeing Navy helicopters helping to break the logistical logjam on relief supplies ("U.S. Copters Speed Pace of Aid for Indonesia Refugees," by Robert McFadden, p. 1). That's what having a carrier (Abe Lincoln) in the region allows the U.S. to do—something that no other nation can muster. As I noted yesterday, relief agencies will be swamped ("With $2 Billion Donated, U.N. Now Needs Help to Deliver Aid: A race 'against the clock' and 'logistical constraint,'" by Warren Hoge, p. 9), so proving the utility of the SysAdmin function here will once again demonstrate the obvious need for synergy between, on the one side, military forces, and, on the other side, the relief agencies whenever we're talking about a major response to need inside the Gap.
I like all the talk ("Aid Summit Talks in Jakarta: U.S. If Facing a Choice and an Opportunity," by David E. Sanger, p. 8) about how this disaster gives America an unprecedented opportunity to prove itself in the world's most populous region, one that's full of Muslims. Up to now, our efforts there have been all about organizing local powers for a push against North Korea over nukes. This situation gives us a chance to showcase our ability to help with our military in peace, not just in war. And it is an amazing capability.
Finally, I like the magazine story ("The War Inside the Arab Newsroom," by Samantha Shapiro, p. 26) about Al-Arabiya's push to become the "CNN" to Al-Jazeera's "Fox News." Yes, the network is Saudi derived, and the Saudis had previously enjoyed a dominant position in terms of controlling the region's satellite-delivered content, but that just mean's Al-Jazeera's entry and success has pushed the Saudis to something better, and this is good. Already, Al-Arabiya has cut into Al-Jazeera's dominant position, and it's only been around for about a year. More connectivity, more viewpoints, more debates—all good stuff.
Today I post the original interview with national correspondent Hiroyuki Akia of Nihon Keizai Shimbun, otherwise known as the Nikkei News, or the "Wall Street Journal of Japan."
This interview, conducted in the fall of 2004, yielded material for two articles for Mr. Akita. The first was a dedicated interview excerpt, complete with picture (15 December 2004, p. 7), and the second was for a larger story on intelligence reform (18 December 2004, p. 8).
Meanwhile, I tackle the reorganization of my new office. Then dinner with the kids, and then probably an episode of "Night Gallery" with the kids before bedtime readings. Vonne got me the entire first season for Xmas. Last night we watched the famous episode where Steven Spielberg, as a young unknown, directed Joan Crawford in a fabulous story where a rich woman pays a down-and-out gambler (Tom Bosley) for his eyes. By blackmailing the eye doc, Crawford's character forces him into an experimental surgery whereby she is given the gambler's eyes, knowing that the new vision will work for only 12 hours. The kicker, of course, is that there's a city-wide blackout that night, so even though she can see, there's nothing to be seen in all the enveloping darkness. My kids loved the pilot, and I was amazed how much I remembered after about 30 years.