A dimension of mind.

I was once haranguing a friend. He listened to me describe my despondence regarding the inability to write, and my deep resentment of those who seemed to have success handed to them wherever they were. I went on and on, angry and bitter, and finally concluded, �But it�s all my own fault, of course; the problem is me, and that I don�t feel passionate about anything enough!�

�Really?� he said, archly. �You seem pretty passionate about this!�

He went on to explain that since I clearly had a lot of energy and so forth regarding this topic that perhaps I should think about channeling that energy into creative work, somehow.

Now, of course, I�ve decided that I�m just not a writer, so it doesn�t matter anyway, and I should be thankful that I don�t have those problems to worry about anymore.

But it doesn�t work that way, does it?

We went to the city pool yesterday. I don�t swim, so I grabbed my PowerBook, took up residence at a picnic table, and began writing an article about a high school teacher who also happens to be an alumnus of my college. It was in my head because of my ten-year college reunion, which was also his fiftieth. I was going to attend but I was sure he wasn�t. Naturally, I missed it, and I found out that he not only attended, but delivered a talk.

In any case, I thought an article about him, and about my failed, last-minute attempt to visit the campus and catch him, would make good reading, and maybe something which the alumni magazine would publish. So, I started writing.

The news wasn�t that I failed. The news was that I succeeded. Well, I succeeded in at least the first few paragraphs, and then suddenly it was time to leave. I was dumbfounded. I was writing again! Not only that, but I was writing at a picnic table with distractions all around me. I had gotten into the closed-off zone of a working writer, where nothing matters but the words on the page. I hadn�t been there since 1999. The furniture was a little dusty, but the inhabitants welcomed me.

Of course, they reminded me that I had, in fact, only written a few paragraphs, and they needed serious revision (which was always my weak point). But the journey was significant.

If I had to guess, I�d say there were three factors that allowed me to jump into the Writing Zone, however briefly. First of all, time: a block of time in which I had nothing to do but the will to write. Second of all, company: There wasn�t any. I was for all intents and purposes alone�no kids to look after, no wife to feel guilty about abandoning. Third, and maybe most important, place: I wasn�t at home, where chores and other distractions overwhelm me. I finally understood why so many writers choose to work in diners. They aren�t technically alone, but in essence it�s just them and their coffee.

So where does that leave me? Either I need to force a block of time in my life (if I want to write), or I need to wait until both my kids are in school, and walk down to the New Deal Caf� with my laptop on a regular basis.

Then I just have to hope they don�t have Wi-Fi, because we all know what the ultimate distraction is.