I have no workspace – and I still have one. What do I mean? In my formal job, as a teacher, I sit along with all others along a table. The space in front of my chair, in front of me, is my space. But it is shared space, created and broken almost with the monotony of duties and classes (when I have to leave the table for whatever reason and my space is taken over, only to be reclaimed when I return).
This isn’t a workspace because for me, a workspace is a personal space. Not a private space, because people are constantly coming in, checking out the space and its contents, communicating with me and leaving. But a personal space nonetheless. One where I can set up things as I like them to be and know that unless I let someone do something in there, it will remain set up in that specific manner.
The space I get in college isn’t a workspace. My workspace lies elsewhere – at home, on the desk, in front and around my computer. The workspace of a content writer.
Until recently it was composed of a laptop that never moved from its place on the table, a set of wireless keyboard and mouse and the peripherals. Now it consists of a desktop PC, the same set of wireless keyboard and mouse and a lot more peripherals and wires.
But a set of machines does not equate to a workspace – a workspace has to be lived in, the gadgets have to be used and assimilated through human touch until they become part of the imagination and the usage of the workspace. Again, this is where my content writing comes in.
You see, I’m a nocturnal creature as far as my content writing is concerned. The sound of the CPU fan running or the clickety-clack of the keyboard is not something you’ll find during the day. But come nightfall, the workspace comes to life, becoming a domain unto itself, spanning the entire space between the outside world and the bed that sits just beside it. I must go through it if I am to supplement the pathetic excuse of a salary I receive as a teacher. I must go through it if I am to validate myself as a contributor in the vast space that is the internet. I must go through it to prove to myself that I am socially useful beyond the sphere of dry academics. I must go through it, I just must.
Once I settle down to work, it is a race between my fingers, my mind, the workload and the time. It always is and is supposed to be so. In fact, I am supposed to work with the clockwork precision of an office-goer, sans the faux social life of the workplace. Because if you work in the dead of the night, you have – and cannot have – a social life to speak of. I’m fine with that – this is a world of my own after all!
But that doesn’t make me a machine, even when I’m supposed to be one. If the real machine – the computer – could speak, he or she would tell you that I am extremely erratic, typing in quick short bursts followed by moments of inertia. Inertia during which I take a break, browse meaningless sites and generally “waste time”. The use and wastage of time, however, tells more about me than my work efficiency – it reflects my character and my feelings.
As I settle down before the computer, I know what I must type and what I must do. I’ve done it a thousand times – literally – before I start hammering away at an article. There’s a tired grace to the way I hit the words “inb” and see my mail URL turn up. The “enter” key is pressed with a sort of vehemence – disgust at having to work again, yet pride, often concealed, that I know exactly what I must do. It is like a veteran nightwatchman hitting his stick on the ground – again and again – and knowing just what the result would be.
I scan my email, going through the day’s correspondence with clients. Sometimes I get sidetracked to other mails. Eventually, I get the mail I wish to work on, and open it. The link appears. The Amazon page appears. I start reading.
Then I reach for the bottle of water. Sometimes it is in front of my printer; at other times, it is on the table across the room. I must lift myself and get it. When I have had water, I survey the page on the screen from across the room. That is where I must go, but must I return so soon ?
Yes! The clock is nearing 1AM and I have hardly started work! I return and finish reading. Maybe I need to read something more – something else. While doing so, I take another pointless break, stretching myself, rotating my head to beat off the tiredness in a body that has been running around, taking classes, handling the rigmarole of academics since the morning. Then I resume work.
Finally it is 1:30 and I must start typing. There is an Office 2013 (now 2016) shortcut in the taskbar. I open I and wait as Word loads. Once it has, I open a blank document.
Blank documents are beautiful. They represent a new opportunity – and also a new challenge. Sometimes, I know just what I need to write, and I begin writing within moments. At other times, I must pause, think and read again, and wonder how I must shape my work. Sometimes I write and delete, write and delete like the proverbial poet (of the modern age) until I’m satisfied. Sometimes I begin writing only to realize I’ve already written this for something else. I must be different – or I must plagiarize myself. Plagiarism, even self-plagiarism, is never an option. I must be original.
Finally, one way or the other, I start typing. The clickety-clack begins, and my thoughts begin to flow out. With spelling errors. One some days, I’m on top of my game, hitting the keys without error and without losing my flow. On other days, I know I’m not hitting the keys correctly. Errors crop up and I must hit the backspace constantly to maintain a decent typing speed. On other days still, I don’t realize that I’m actively typing – the content absorbs me and I realize that I’m typing only when I make a mistake. The latter type of days are rare indeed.
But whatever I type, no matter how I type, there is a beautiful familiarity about the keyboard. I have a Logitech MK270R – a birthday gift I gave myself on my 23rd. It has been a year since and the main keyboard alphabet keys shine with the oil and the toil of a thousand million keystrokes. Some made in vain to be sure, some made while playing one or the other game, but a good amount made to make money. Yes, my keystrokes make money for me. The more I type, the more money I make. It’s as simple as that.
But what about the different ways I hit keys? Am I feeling the same when I’m hitting keys with force, or when I’m missing keys and making mistakes. Am I feeling the same when I am sure of my key-spacing, or when I’m hitting the keys at their edges and must make errors sooner than later ?
The answer is surely no. Typing, like playing the guitar or engaging in a katha in Karate (both of which I’ve done at different points of my life) is an art. An art that requires the combination of skill, experience and presence of mind. And yes, confidence. Unlike beginners who pause with every keystroke, people who have been typing for years develop a rhythm. This rhythm expresses your personality and the state of your mind.
If you feel confident, you will type confidently, regardless of the meaning of the content you’re typing. If you are not feeling confident or something is gnawing at the back of your mind, you will type more erratically. The funny thing is, such confidence or lack thereof may have nothing to do with the matter you’re typing. You may be totally sure of what you wish to type but the keystrokes come out chaotically. Or you may be confused but whatever you type, you type without mistakes.
Many a times, I only realize what the state of my mind is when I begin typing. Fears that have been lurking at the back of my mind may come forth as the foremind is busy processing all manner of information for me to type. Yet the back of the mind decides how the rhythm should be – how I would express myself. This is because while the presence of mind and skill are in the foremind, the experience and emotions are in the back of the mind.
To break away from a bad typing session, I sometimes take a break. Sometimes survey my surroundings – the workspace – and sometimes simply type more slowly (or quickly!) All the while, the sound of my CPU fan, the gentle whirring of the overhead fan and the tears streaming down my eyes from exhaustion punctuate and define my existence. These are somewhat constant – they root me to my existence as a content writer working in the dead of the night, pulling my tired body and fresh computer to do the tasks that give me money.
It is now 2:40AM and I have finished my first article of the night. I must do another before I sleep, and do this fast so I can get at least 5 hours of sleep in the night. The laziness is cast aside, the tears are wiped off and my mind becomes keenly aware of the time deadlines I must set for my body to get adequate rest. The workspace eggs me on, tells me of the achievements of the past that decorate my bank balance. It also tells me of my needs, the bills I have piling up, the aspirations I have and the balance I must maintain. All of this drags me on, and so I must focus to a far greater degree than I have heretofore.
3:40AM – the work is finally done and I am free for the night. I finish off the remaining work, send off the emails and shut down the computer. There is something rapid about this – the closing of windows, the saving of files, the shutting down. It is as if I want to prove that I’ve finished in the shortest possible time. Often, I do want to. Why? To justify the money I’m being paid against the hours I’m working? To justify that I’m not wrecking my health by working after work? There is no simple answer, but I still shut everything down with a vengeance.
Then I raise myself from the dark workspace – no whirring CPU fan, no lights, no clickety-clack. The day’s work is done. The computer has gone off to sleep. I must sleep too, until 22 hours pass and I am back before the computer with another batch of work. Work which only my computer is witness to and perhaps, in a small way, sympathises with. Work that is the lot of the nocturnal content writer.
Bonne Nuit!