To Hell With Pragmatism

Pragmatism, that sleazy little fellow, tells me to get the word lists done, get the dishes done, create a shopping list – otherwise I’ll be scrapping together a dinner that only makes a nod toward healthy during a time I can actually make something from scratch.  Pragmatism says I’ll regret it if I’m not getting ready for what will be a very hectic, stressful semester. To which I say–.  Okay, that might be a little too rude.

But when is a writer supposed to write if not now?  Now.  Before the kids come home; while the coffee is brewing; while pulling over the side of the road enroute to work; while making dinner (or instead of it)…  Now.   Because otherwise, when?

Pragmatism is making snippy remarks about the late nights and stress headaches I’ll have in a few weeks because I didn’t put in a few hours right now.  But I’ll have those anyway.  It’s winter break, when I don’t have a running conversation with my other alter-ego about which students to push, which to check in on, which assignments need to be discussed and which can be ignored.  There’s no room for writing—not even the passing nod to the pragmatic kind like this post—during all that internal nattering.

Don’t you find it strange that when we’re in school we are expected to get creative about time and make sure our homework gets done, but when we are out of school we don’t keep the same expectations about our writing.?  Something – I’ll lay money on it—we all feel is much more rewarding and worthwhile than the class for which we blew off laundry for a week so we could work on a paper.

What will you do to write?