Confession time: I’ve been so smelly while writing The Last Goddess that a few days ago, my partner politely asked me to knock it off. It’s bad enough now that when I reach out to pet my cats, they sniff, wince, and flee.
But I can’t stop.
I’ve made this nostril-punching miasma synonymous with writing time—and it’s working.
Now before you think I’m weird, allow me to shove someone even weirder ahead of me: Friedrich Schiller, the famous German playwright, poet, and philosopher. Schiller loved apples, and by “loved apples,” I mean he’d stuff them into his writing desk, where they would rot into withered husks. Allegedly, the, ahem, aroma sparked his creativity, and his wife claimed that he couldn’t live or work without it.
Maria Popova at The Marginalian proposed an interesting hypothesis as to why Schiller’s trick might have had a scientific basis:
If left to rot long enough, decomposing biomass, such as apples, produces methane gas. Though methane is not toxic, it can displace oxygen in a closed space — like, say, an obsessive writer’s small den — and could eventually pose asphyxiation risk if the displacement runs rampant. In small doses, however, it can cause light-headedness — that pleasant near-tipsy feeling of slight dizziness one gets when in the grip of creative inspiration. It is possible, then, that the rotting apples were more than an odd olfactory stimulus for Schiller and actually had a biological effect on his mental state.
Admittedly, the temptation to stuff drawers with withering apple corpses has been strong, but out of consideration for my loved ones, I’ve (begrudgingly) resorted to fragrances and essential oils* instead. Unfortunately, this has not stymied the complaints; though, perhaps, I ought to remind my loved ones just how much worse it could be (“At least I haven’t entombed us inside an abandoned apple orchard!” I shout as a thundercloud of lavender oil hazes the living room.)
Now, the reason why I make myself smell like a workplace accident at a Bath & Body Works is two-fold:
First, good writing habits necessitate pairing the act of writing with some sort of reward (as per Rosanne Bane’s Around the Writer’s Block). Science has taught us that scents “superglue” themselves to emotions and memories. It’s why one whiff of honey fragrance always portals me back to hanging out with my grandmother in the mid-90s. So, nowadays, I lather the backs of my hands with cedarwood oil before every writing session, because it’s the clue that tells my brain: Remember all those other kick-ass writing session? Yeah, we’re about to do that again.
Now, this second one is a bit more esoteric, but for some reason, strong scents settle my subconscious’s restlessness. It’s like my attention-starved toddler of a brain needs its cartoons to keep it from distracting me as I work: Here kid, go play with mommy’s extremely expensive TokyoMilk perfume. Why does it work? Apparently, there’s some science behind it: How Scented Environments Impact Concentration and Mental Clarity.
For me, my favs have been cedarwood essential oil and Everything & Nothing perfume—both of which have been hardwired into my brain to mean: TYPING TIME. So, if I’m ever annoying you at a cocktail party, just remember: Spritz me, and I’ll scurry off towards the closest keyboard.
*One little caveat for anyone new to essential oils: Don’t diffuse most essential oils around cats and dogs. They’re harmful to pets. Those oils include mints, tea tree, eucalyptus, citruses, and many more.