Monday 11 December 2023
After too many bouts of writer’s block, I determined I would be—no, must be—finished writing the Katyn book manuscript by December 2022. Gingerly during Spring 2022, I reviewed the then current state of the manuscript. I still needed to write many chapters. What I already had wasn’t enough. I didn’t even write about my Katyn Forest visit. Much of the narrative was missing. “Don’t psyche yourself out. You knew that the book would be a long one. You finally figured out what kind of book it would be. Now you need discipline. Focus. Time management. Just do it; write!” I told myself. Sick and tired of the procrastination, delay, and self-imposed intimidation, I willed myself: “Finish it already.”
I reassessed my writing process. Something wasn’t working. Too many years had gone by, and I had little to show for the effort. At that moment, I wrote the Katyn manuscript in the way I wrote my Melville manuscript: by hand in a college-ruled notebook. After completing a section, I would type it. Transcribing over 80-pages of handwritten notes several times, I became disillusioned. This process took too much time. I needed an entire month to complete this task. If I were to be finished by December 2022, this method already was failing me. This technique worked for my Melville book, not for the Katyn project.
I found a soothing self-assurance in handwriting the Melville manuscript. Being left-handed, the edge of my hand becomes smudged by the ink. The darker the ink stains, I found confirmation that what I was writing was good: hell, there’s a lot of writing! So, I thought. Moreover, because I grip a pen tightly, I have developed a large callus on my middle finger. Again, the physical and visual cues of the callus strengthened my resolve to write. The quirky habits of the writer, but they helped to fortify my confidence.
However, for the Katyn manuscript, instead of finding energy and motivation using this old (seemingly reliable) writing technique, I fell behind. Arthritic-like pain stiffened my hand. No handwriting occurred. This strategy wasn’t working. So, I liberated myself from it. I surprised myself by how quickly I had done so because I always imagined myself as the left-handed, old-school writer using a pen to write. Katyn was a modern problem, and so I now sat in front of my desktop computer. And then what? The threat of writer’s block still loomed. I needed a solution to this problem.
But how to remedy it? A colleague suggested I use the Pomodoro Technique. Using a tomato-shaped cooking timer set to 25 minutes to work or study, a demoralized Francesco Cirillo developed this technique to overcome his anxiety and futility caused by having too much to do. It was a way to overcome writer’s or worker’s block. It was a way of dividing a large task into smaller, more manageable ones. One step (or mini task) at a time. Trying to accomplish the task all at once doesn’t work; hence, the writer’s block. Too much all at once. Not only does the Pomodoro Technique manage time, but it also manages the mind. It re-introduces control to the writer. Confidence is regained.
Using a timer set for 25 minutes, I wrote. I couldn’t stop. I only had 25 minutes to write. No distractions. I just needed to write whatever came to mind. No filter. No second-guessing. Don’t worry about grammar. Just commit ideas onto the screen. Once the 25 minutes are over, stop all writing. The scene looks and feels like a classroom exam. I must use wisely all the time I have; don’t squander it. After the 25 minutes, I take 5 minutes to rest. Repeat the process. Again. One more time. The first 25 minutes might have resulted in one paragraph; however, I produced one paragraph. A little over an hour, I had nearly a page. Progress.
Immediately, I felt constrained by 25 minutes. The 5 minutes of rest felt like an eternity. As a writing instructor, I understood the need for the breaks and the short bursts of writing; however, as a creative and intellectual writer, I felt 25 minutes weren’t enough. At the end of those 25-minute sessions, ideas were still flowing. I just couldn’t “stop” writing. I didn’t want to lose those ideas because “time was up.” Initially, I broke the rule of the Pomodoro Technique. Before taking the 5-minute rest, in fear I would forget them, I would write in shorthand those ideas. Yes, I was supposed to be resting, but I needed to record those ideas. I did so quickly. My mind was on fire. Rest is needed when I feel tired. I didn’t feel tired. Those 5 minutes, I argued, weren’t necessary, but I reluctantly stuck with the rest period. The 25 minutes on, 5 minutes off was the point of the Pomodoro Technique.
The following day, I set the clock to 45 minutes. I removed the leash. The next day, I wrote for an hour straight. At the end of that writing session, I would take my dog, Laska, for a walk. The walk was my “off;” however, my mind wasn’t “off.” I wasn’t resting. I was working out intellectual problems. Exercising by walking, I stumbled upon creative solutions to find the phrases, the words for the chapter I was working on. Moving forward—the physical act of walking Laska—loosened my mental and creative stiffness. The sunlight, the Spring green, fresh air energized me. When an idea began percolating in my mind, I walked faster, chasing after it. I would jot down notes on my smartphone. I didn’t dare rely upon my memory. Too much was at stake. Write it down! No time to waste. Long walks now yielded later long pages of writing. Repeat. Again. The method was working.
The urgency to write intensified the commitment to the technique. The Pomodoro Technique became more than a “technique;” it became a sensibility. My life’s responsibilities: being a professor, husband, father demand precision and time management. Time is precious. Use it now, while I have it. The regiment didn’t feel restrictive. The Pomodoro Technique provided order. Knowing that I only had 25 minutes, I needed to write within those 25 minutes. Eventually the amount of time didn’t matter. The work created in that moment of time mattered.