I know, I know (I’m glad we got that out of the way).
So, I recently had the pleasure of spending a week in
Maine. Why Maine? Well, last fall I applied to a writing
residency I really, really wanted to get (lady writers, you’ll want to check
out the Hedgebrook Writer’s Residency here). While I waited to hear my fate I decided I needed a
consolation prize in case I didn’t get it. You see, friends,
I have barely written anything for myself in, oh, years. I was starting to get nervous that I
wasn’t a writer anymore. Hell, I
don’t call myself a Writer. I say
things like, “I do freelance writing and editing work.” This is true.
It didn’t take long to scheme up an alternate plan: I would invite myself to my friend
Irene’s house for a week. I hadn’t
seen Irene since graduate school (2008), I’d never been to Maine, and I
desperately needed some quiet time and space to write. She was, thankfully, all in.
It felt good not to pin all my writing hopes on the residency. Good thing.
So off I went, to Maine.
This all sounds easier than it was in reality. I’ve never been away from the kids for
more than three days, and even that began to feel long. I knew this would be different, though,
and it was. I arrived in Maine on
a Wednesday, and while I missed Vinny and the kids each day, it wasn’t until
Sunday that the pull really began to take hold.
But that’s not what I wanted to write about.
What I really wanted to tell you is that I’m still a
writer. I know, I wasn’t sure
about it either.
I want to gush.
I want to tell you how magical it was: the time and space
needed to allow your mind to unfold creatively, to rediscover a long-buried
love, to talk shop with someone who knows your writing intimately, to scheme
future publishing projects, to reacquaint yourself with long-abandoned projects
only to see new potential, to get outdoors and breathe in that ocean-scented
air, to take hikes, to linger.
To linger…
Yes, that’s it right there.
This is perhaps the part of having children that is most
confounding to me: the pull
between being present to properly care for little people, and having the time
and space to linger in your own thoughts without being tugged in fifty other
directions.
Lingering, for me, is crucial to creativity. If I can’t live in the writing, roll
around in it, talk about it, examine it from ninety different angles, well,
it’s tough to get to the heart of it.
A huge part of the problem is that because I write so
sporadically, when I do finally find a little window of time to sit down and do
the work, my brain freezes. What
do I do with this snippet of time?
Do I start something new?
Do I haul out that fucking screenplay again? Do I do some research for a book I haven’t started so I
don’t really have to write? Do I
organize my writing folders? Do I
make a list? Do I…? It’s overwhelming.
This nasty spiral often continues for the entirety of the
Writing Snippet. And then it’s
over, and I’ve usually accomplished nothing, and feel further dejected.
To have a week to bask in it all was the biggest gift I’ve
given myself in a long time. It
felt at once selfish and utterly necessary.
Re-entry back into regular life has been harsh. In the week I’ve been back, this is the
first real time I’ve had to think—and quickly type—any writing-related
reflections. It’s
discouraging. I told Vinny my time
in Maine felt like a tease. I
discovered that yes, it’s still there, only to have it pulled away again. So I’m left to chase it.
The difference is, I’m motivated to chase after it now.
What does my ideal writing practice look like? It looks like time carved out each day
to write. I kissed this ideal
good-bye a long time ago. At this
point in my life it isn’t realistic.
And I’ve come to accept that.
Here’s the thing:
I don’t wish time away.
Sure, I sometimes think about when the kids will both be in school, and
hey, won’t it be nice to have part of a day at home to work on my writing? Hell yes. But then this daydream is quickly followed by the sobering
fact that Eli will turn five this coming Halloween, and I begin to wonder how
this is possible, the way time begins to move at lightning speed the moment
those babes arrive. Soon enough I
will be alone far too often without them, and that will be difficult in
different ways.
I left Maine with a list of short and long-term writing
goals (thank you, Irene). Three of
my short-term goals will remain on a permanent list:
1. FINISH a
piece of writing.
(seriously, this is more difficult than it sounds)
2. Submit
it.
3. STOP
distracting myself with BS tasks to avoid writing.
My current plan is to carve out a 2-3 hour block of time
once per week to work on my own writing.
I can make that time for myself.
I deserve that time. I need
that time.
We all do, mothers or not. So do it.
Linger.
