The blossoms and bulbs in my garden insist that Spring is here, but the temperature has yet to get on board with this plan. I’m itching to get out there to weed and tidy up, but at the moment I’ve got a giant, gauze-wrapped foot preventing me from doing more things than I care to think about. My days in this idyllic country setting are numbered, and I’m watching Mother Nature weave her magic through a dirty bedroom window. At least she’s kind enough to send rain all week so I don’t feel trapped.
We’re moving in June. Staying here in the Niagara region, heading closer to the school. We’ve traded this huge, rambling old home with it’s eighties country decor and massive yard for a brand new build in a subdivision. The new house is very clean. It has beautiful fixtures and simple, neutral colors. There’s space enough for all of us, and the yard is an easy-to-maintain postage stamp. No pool here, but a community pool a short walk away, with a huge playground and soccer field. Best of all, a distant relationship with the property management company that is leasing the place. If my current landlord/tenant situation wasn’t so toxic, we would have stayed here indefinitely. I’ve never lived in a brand new home. The gleaming kitchen on the open concept first floor has me giddy.
Meanwhile, I’m dipping my toes into the waters of packing and purging. The healthy toes, that is. I’ve just had bunion surgery on my left foot, and let’s face it, I’m a baby when it comes to physical pain. I’m healing well, but I’m slowed by this process at a time when all I want to do is exert control over my environment. We need to get organized, but I’m operating at 3/4 speed. I keep telling myself that it’s for the best. That maybe I’d burn out and feel even more stressed if I could take on everything I want to tackle right now. I feel like an easier, more relaxed version of myself.
None of my pants fit over my bandaged foot, so I’m forced to wear skirts and dresses, which leaves me feeling softer, more maternal, like the magnolia blossoms unfurling in the front yard. Little details make a world of difference sometimes.
My week-long writing retreat happened, thanks to the wonderful support I received from friends and family. I chose Stratford, off season. Initially, I wanted a cottage in the middle of nowhere but I thought that might be too isolated and too lonely. Next time, that’s exactly what I’ll do. I’d never gone somewhere by myself to write. I spent so much time drowning in self-doubt and wading through feelings of futility, that it was all-too-tempting to go for a walk or visit a cafe to try to distract myself. Despite this, I was able to make a mountain of notes and structure the huge rewrites I knew the novel needed to take it to the next level. I came home with a composition book full of directions and dozens of index cards with scene outlines and character sketches. Three days before the trip was over, I sat down to write and this felt like magic. My goal was to have another draft written, but I think that would have required a miracle, even with laser focus. Next time, I’ll do the homework first and save the time away for writing. I’d like to do this every year, possibly twice a year. Beyond the actual writing, the time to myself was a soul balm. I learned a lot about what I want, what I need, and what feels good. What amazed me the most is how I never felt homesick. I was able to miss my family, yet completely enjoy my time alone.
When this round of rewrites is complete, I’m sending the manuscript off to an editor. Then, I’ll start querying agents and see where that goes. I’m realizing that I can’t rush this process, no matter how much I’d like to. Things like foot surgery, moving, making money, and life demand my attention first. Fortunately, I love my work and the things that prevent writing are mostly pleasurable. If you asked me what I do for a living, I’d say ‘strive for balance’.
Is it selfish to devote time and energy to a creative pursuit that may never yield a profit? Is it wrong for a mother to allow that time to come between her and her children? Am I grossly self-indulgent for leaving my family for a week to dally with my novel? Should I look for a conventional job with benefits instead of structuring my work life around my writing?
What if I’m doing this wrong?