Scheherazade and I

There was once a sultan who liked to marry a beautiful young virgin every day and, after the wedding night, have her beheaded at dawn. This went on for years until  Scheherazade, who was both pretty and clever, volunteered to marry the guy. As the wedding night drew to a close and they waited for the executioner, Scheherazade suggested that she while away the time by telling her husband a story. He assented, but just as Scheherazade was getting to the exciting part, there was a knock on the door. It was a eunuch with his scimitar, ready to get to work. However, the story was so intriguing and Scheherazade told it so well that the sultan sent the eunuch away, on the condition that she would finish the story the following night.

On the second night, Scheherazade finished her story and began another even more exciting one, which earned her another reprieve. She continued her strategy, keeping the sultan in suspense night after night until, after a thousand and one nights, she ran out of tales. By then, however, Scheherazade and the sultan had had a couple of kids together and the sultan had forgotten all about his desire to behead her. And everyone in the kingdom, especially young virgins and their families, lived peacefully ever after.

With this post, I will have Scheherazade beaten by 384 stories. We’re talking sheer numbers, not quality. Nothing here comes close to Aladdin and the Magic Lamp, or Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Plus, Scheherazade told a story every night while fearing for her life, whereas I only write one a week, and nobody is threatening to cut off my head. Still, 1,385 posts (counting this one) is a lot of posts.

I do it by functioning as my own sultan, and scaring myself into writing.  The rhythm of weekly posting gives discipline to my mind and structure to my life. Without this artificial deadline, I fear that both my brain and my life would turn into mush. I normally post on Wednesday, and Wednesday evening is the happiest time of my week. Once I click Publish, I breathe a sigh of relief, pour a glass of wine, and stop worrying, at least for a while. Thursday is a good day too, in which I allow myself not to think about anything writing related. On Friday it occurs to me that I should start rummaging in my inner attics for the next topic, but really, I tell myself, there’s no hurry yet.

On Saturday, if nothing has come to mind, I start getting jittery. By Sunday, optimally, I should have (in Anne Lamott’s immortal words) a shitty first draft, but often Sunday comes and goes without even the hint of an idea. That’s when I start to feel like Scheherazade on the 1,001st night. What if this time the well really has run dry? I’ve squeezed every single memory out of my past, and my present is too dull and circumscribed to yield anything of the slightest interest to anyone. Maybe it’s time to euthanize the blog….

On Monday, in a panic, I open the computer, click on New Post, and sort of vomit the contents of my brain onto the screen. No grammar, no punctuation, just sheer undigested glop. Before I know it, there’s a bunch of sentences on the screen and they badly need fixing, so I start deleting and rearranging—and suddenly, I have a shitty first draft. Mentally exhausted, I walk away telling myself that I have all of Tuesday and part of Wednesday to make the piece presentable.

Tuesday comes and I’m paring away at the draft, when it hits me that I STILL HAVE THE ILLUSTRATION TO DO. This is alarming, since I am limited both by time and technique in what I can draw. Some pieces are easier to illustrate than others. It’s one thing to illustrate a Truffle story, but how do you draw existential angst?

Despite last-minute technical glitches, somehow by late Wednesday it is done.  The sultan is appeased for the moment, the eunuch with the scimitar has been dismissed, and I can bask in the glory of having written. I know how Scheherazade felt as the sun rose over the Arabian dunes. With a glance at the now sleeping sultan, she tiptoed out of the bedroom and walked into the cool of the morning, limp with relief at having survived the night and not thinking about the next story. Not yet.