Of course, it’s been a spectacularly beautiful February so far on our island, with many days of bright sunshine and blue skies, and an early spring that is coming to life in the blooms on the trees and on the ground. I’m not complaining about that. There ain’t nothing to complain about in that regard. Still, I will admit that even the cloudy days have their own February flavor to them, even in this bursting spring.
Entering into March of 2015 surprises me. I have been waiting, wanting, trying to get myself to get focused, and get to work. I have been feeling lost and muddled, trying to grab the moments of clarity when they arrive, but finding distraction wherever I look: in the piles of laundry in the laundry room and our closets, in the toys littering the playroom, in the dishes in the sink, and in my own ideas about how I should direct my energies. Should I find a part-time job on the island to fill my time and fund an early retirement? Should I write another novel? And if I do, will it ever get published? Should I start my own business? Should I do all of the above? The answer too often seems dependent on my level of caffeine intake for the day.
The real, true, basic reality of what I most want, and what I have wanted since I was a child, is to be a novelist. A published one, not a writer of novels standing in stacks of unattended paper covered with dust, or hiding on hard drives. The only way to get there is to put my butt in a seat every single day and write something, anything, no matter how good or how bad, and to move on with it.
So here I am again. Starting again. This blog has become such a journal about fits and starts, and interruptions. So, then, my goals are this: to write every day. To embrace the reality of bad writing, and to write anyway. And I need to set some page goals for myself. So let's say it has to be two pages a day. No matter what. Even on the kids' days off. They are becoming old enough to let me do it. Too often I find myself avoiding writing because I have set up some unspoken goal for myself that it has to be good writing and if it's not it's not worth it. Which is clearly a paralyzing proposition--why sit down at all, then?
To be fair, last year marked my entry back into the world of writing, and it surrounded editing my novel, with very little new work. This year has been interrupted by my own goals for parenting and focusing on the kids while they transitioned into their various school settings. Now I am ready to write again. And also to edit again. The novel needs another major revision. But I want to start something new, and I am going to do that too.
Oh, man. The focus. I can feel it turning the corner and finding me again. A friend told me the other day that if I just started writing again, the desire and focus would come back. I can feel their arrival in the din of this coffee shop and in the endlessly pleasing feel of keys beneath my fingers.
Sigh. Hello.
Entering into March of 2015 surprises me. I have been waiting, wanting, trying to get myself to get focused, and get to work. I have been feeling lost and muddled, trying to grab the moments of clarity when they arrive, but finding distraction wherever I look: in the piles of laundry in the laundry room and our closets, in the toys littering the playroom, in the dishes in the sink, and in my own ideas about how I should direct my energies. Should I find a part-time job on the island to fill my time and fund an early retirement? Should I write another novel? And if I do, will it ever get published? Should I start my own business? Should I do all of the above? The answer too often seems dependent on my level of caffeine intake for the day.
The real, true, basic reality of what I most want, and what I have wanted since I was a child, is to be a novelist. A published one, not a writer of novels standing in stacks of unattended paper covered with dust, or hiding on hard drives. The only way to get there is to put my butt in a seat every single day and write something, anything, no matter how good or how bad, and to move on with it.
So here I am again. Starting again. This blog has become such a journal about fits and starts, and interruptions. So, then, my goals are this: to write every day. To embrace the reality of bad writing, and to write anyway. And I need to set some page goals for myself. So let's say it has to be two pages a day. No matter what. Even on the kids' days off. They are becoming old enough to let me do it. Too often I find myself avoiding writing because I have set up some unspoken goal for myself that it has to be good writing and if it's not it's not worth it. Which is clearly a paralyzing proposition--why sit down at all, then?
To be fair, last year marked my entry back into the world of writing, and it surrounded editing my novel, with very little new work. This year has been interrupted by my own goals for parenting and focusing on the kids while they transitioned into their various school settings. Now I am ready to write again. And also to edit again. The novel needs another major revision. But I want to start something new, and I am going to do that too.
Oh, man. The focus. I can feel it turning the corner and finding me again. A friend told me the other day that if I just started writing again, the desire and focus would come back. I can feel their arrival in the din of this coffee shop and in the endlessly pleasing feel of keys beneath my fingers.
Sigh. Hello.
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