I make a point of starting over again and again, when it comes to creative projects. The sense of renewal and conversion is essential in both the spiritual and the creative realms, and as such, I’m open to frequent, complete and utter collapse for the greater good. Thus, I’ve not posted here on Wristwatches and Radios for some time. I have though, invested an inordinate amount of time in moving over here to Substack, from a self hosted Wordpress blog. The outrageous renewal fees for the hosting was one impetus. The Substack community was another - with a particular sense of elegance, hope, idealism and integrity. A third was the minimalism that marks the platform.
I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve invested (ie lost) in customising Wordpress templates, imagery, logos and layouts. It’s a wonderfully satisfying method of procrastination that has just the right amount of self-righteous justification about it - because of course nobody wants a site that looks tired, drab or outdated. You want to honour your work by presenting it as best you can, don’t you? Or maybe, you should just do more of the work. The writing is the work. The rest is window dressing. Substack’s simplicity drives me to honour, and prioritise the work.
But the jump over took time. The export from Wordpress and import into Substack was remarkably easy. But I lost the images that I’d used for each post, prompting a visual renewal that was actually somewhat invigorating. For argument’s sake, I’ll assert that it wasn’t a complete waste of time, but a necessity of sorts. One simple image for each post isn’t excessive or self indulgent. But working through about sixty posts and finding the right image for each takes time. Nonetheless, now that we’re set up (and Two Thieves on a Hill, my other, more ramshackle and random personal blog has come along with us), I’m good to go.
Hence, I’ve been mulling over two terms for a couple of weeks now: Prolificacy and prolificity. The meditation has been spurred by the renewal of a project list (a la David Allen), that was precipitated by what one may term a complete and utter collapse for the greater good. I fell in love with both, but felt I had to choose one over the other. The core principle was shared, of course. To be prolific is of course to produce much fruit, many works, a great body of such, perhaps. But that was the adjective. I needed the noun. Two presented themselves: prolificacy and prolificity (One of these has a squiggly red line under them, but I won’t ruin the moment and tell you which - it’s a simple matter of its anacronism, rather than abberation).
Initial research suggested that the two were interchangeable, but I was already smitten with the former: Prolificacy. It was curvier, subtler, less bombastic than its outlandish sister. Prolificity was too scientific, jargonistic, medical, procedural, self important. The ending was far too busy and congested. Prolificacy had the suggestion of class, dignity, perhaps even delicacy.
Alas, further procrastination/research lead to a startling discover. It appears (and further research may well disprove this, but I’m a busy man and I need to get words on the page while I can) that Prolificacy actually has stronger associations with fertility and child bearing, than it does good works. Prolificity is, apparently, the more apt term for creative pursuits. I was dismayed, but not surprised. What had allured me to prolificacy was not the curves, the finesse, the prudence of it all - but a recognition of my very self, dear reader.
Stalwart regulars here at Wristwatches are aware, of course, that I have no less than eleven beautiful children. Six years ago (whilst we had only seven children born thus far), we sold our home, moved interstate and lay down roots on acreage, in a small, rural town, drawn by its thriving Catholic community, outstanding priests, the beauty of the locale, and the serene lifestyle that it offered. After we landed, we had four more children in four consecutive years, which isn’t as hard as it sounds when you’re desperately in love with the beautiful, saintly woman you married, and find an outrageous sense of joy and fulfilment in the children that result from that love.
Thus, hence the allure of the term: prolificacy, was born of a plain and simple, stark, specificity. It was me. It was us. Hence, I once again make peace with my vocation, and a given inclination, to life, love, and at times, little writing. I didn’t choose prolificity all those years, ago, although I’ve flirted with it from time to time. I chose prolificacy, and as such, would apologise for the dearth of writing here at Wristwatches - but in truth, the only reason the project exists is because of that love, that vocation, that wondrous distraction. But alas, here I am, with a sense of renewal and conversion.
So I sit, and I write. I’m in the same place, at about the same time I’ve always done this. As always, I’m in the same wooden chair, which isn’t uncomfortable, nor unforgiving. As always, Neil Young’s soundtrack to Jim Jarmusch’s Dead Man is playing. As always, the same lamp throws warm light on a small print of Virgin of the Angels, by Adolphe-William Bouguereau. I drink my orange and cinnamon tea with the bag in, to allow for eternal top ups. An hour ago I was falling asleep. But now, of course, once I’ve started, it’d be madness to stop before the idea is played out. Some things don’t change, thanks be to God.
So if you’ve found Wristwatches and Radios, here on Substack, for the first time: welcome. I pray you find it an enjoyable foray into the joys of fatherhood, fidelity, culture and creativity. Dip into the archives, find something that strikes a chord, and if you do, please take a second to subscribe. It’d mean a lot to me, and there’s plenty to share ahead of us.
There’s nothing like a new beginning.