On the Process

on the process, Feb 5 to Sept 16

/ Elizabeth / Leave a comment

well. this is a ridiculous amount of time to try and describe, let alone summarize. so I won’t. but I can recall some peaks and valleys for you:

  • lap swim in the deep winter months – the ones where spring seems like a legend or a dream – was renewing; the water reminded me of the need for regularity and rhythm, to sometimes float despite the denseness of the darkness
  • talks with friends keep me afloat; so many of my dearest people are far far far away, but that is only physical distance, and we can surmount the space with intentions to be together; they give me flashes of warmth and joy
  • the creation of a home – a physical space that feels like a light landing place after time away – is a creative endeavor, and one that I undertook this summer with some steady focus; it was a long time coming, and now walking through each room, admiring art and the placement of furniture, vases of flowers, small and precious objects, I feel this place and I have arrived somewhere new together
  • no matter how many strategies and safeguards I think I have in place for my health and well-being, I sometimes fall ill and need help; for me the challenge is in asking for support – I don’t want to burden others – but my loved ones love me back and want to help, and I can accept that aspect of love; more than anything mutual support deepens our relationship and does not burden it
  • newness is also creation – new experiences, new relationships, they are tender buds that require tending and care; newness is soft and precious and sometimes exceedingly rare and sometimes scarier than I anticipate but it is overall beautiful and vital and the biggest and best part of being alive
  • at times there is nothing to do but exist, to be present and in the presence of loved ones at a meal or on a walk or under the sun or in the open air, to be present while alone, to be present in a crowd, to be and just be
  • the fallow times for my writing – and for this book project about Annabelle – feel wrong, but all things need rest, I think; I am returning to it now, just in thoughts, and I think I may try some new and big changes, go back to poetic language, add lists and impressions and focus on emotion and beauty over plot and trust that the reader will let me lead them

so, yes. the process has been meandering but full. we’ll keep trying. everyday anew.

on the process, Jan 29 to Feb 4

/ Elizabeth / Leave a comment

so, up front: I didn’t write like I said I would. this week I was very tired and so I took off a day from work to rest and I spent an entire day on the weekend just on the couch reading and resting, too. I think that’s what I needed. it’s hard to listen to teenagers (as their teacher) and be calm and supportive and warm and thoughtful and present day after day. so I rested. and today (Monday) was probably one of the best days I’ve had with my students in a long time. do I wish I also had the energy to write and be creative, as well? yes, of course. but that’s all I could manage this week. and I’m learning to be okay with not doing it all.

I did enough. and I will try again tomorrow.

on the process, week of Jan 22-28

/ Elizabeth / Leave a comment

so, no writing. but other creativity-related things happened. like eating beautiful meals and dancing to music that rattled the whole building, and going for a swim and thinking. as with the laps, my brain turned on the same thoughts over and over. mostly, I love swimming. I’ve got to do this every Sunday. how do I get Annabelle (my novel’s protagonist) to come to me and tell me her story, in her voice, without it feeling strange? as with all things, I think I’ve just got to start. that will be my goal for this week:  a snappy, 500-word vignette told from Annabelle’s perspective. I feel exposed just saying a small goal like that to more than myself, but I hope we’ll all be kind with how it works itself out. 

I’ve also thought about a couple of submission deadlines. of course, the publications I admire and covet being in the most have closed submission windows, but that’s okay. I didn’t have anything for them to read anyway. however, a couple deadlines for smaller publications are coming up that I think I can do something for, little flash pieces. the one on skin is still in the works, and I have an idea brewing for something else. 

oh, and another piece of evidence that I can work under a deadline, that I can write inside little snippets of time:  I wrote a poem today, a found poem — sometimes known as a blackout poem or an altered page poem. I did it as a way to experience what my creative writing students will experience, to see how long it might take, to imagine how hard they’ll have to think. it was hard. but I did it. so they can do it, too. 

remember loves, the stakes are not that high. just try. just begin. see you next week.

my trial run blackout poem

on the process, week of Jan 8-14

/ Elizabeth / Leave a comment

back to work, and there is less time to be, or it feels that way. 

at work:  so much creation – of space and tasks and ideas and solutions to problems I never even anticipated arising. 

at work:  so many people, so much energy spent externally, the volume turned up much higher. and that is fine. I do not like to be only alone, only quiet. but it makes hearing the quieter voices, the softer nudges, the gentler pulls, harder to notice and follow. 

everyday presents the choice to choose habit or intention. habit is temptingly easy, intention much harder. 

I am intending to choose intention, even in small things:  quiet until after breakfast; noticing the light changing during the day, how it falls across the floor, then the wall, then away; sweeping the floor and chopping vegetables as meditation and not chores; looking for new beauty in a face I already know; this weekly reflection. 

and I must confess:  this weekly reflection was intended to be about a longer work, a book that started forming four years ago, but it has wandered so far away I’ve had to do dishes in silence and shovel snow in the cold to find a way to invite it back. 

and I must confess again:  I am through the foothills and at the base of the mountain, I think. I know where it will go, the book — if things go well — but I have to start over, nearly. what I thought would be a story told in limited third is asking to be told in first person. so. I have to sift through those pages, bravely, and let them go and move them into something new. again. re-creation. 

so. I intend to make time to sit at a window or at my desk and watch the light change, and also reread pages and smile and say hello and goodbye and hello, to start again.