Some news: I’ve been accepted as one of the participants in
In the meantime, I’m staying busy. I kicked off this summer with
’s 1,000 Words of Summer project. If you’re unfamiliar, it’s a bunch of writers aiming to put down 1,000 words every day for the first two weeks of June. It’s wonderful- a supportive community, each person cheering everyone else on while keeping their eyes on their work and their heads in the writing game. It’s an extraordinary thing she’s created and I’m looking forward to making it an annual routine.
I had a vision of going into it prepared. I wanted to be geared up, rested, ready. I imagined chipping away at a project, gaining ground day by day, chapters melting out of me. There was a great post that went up with advice on how to prepare, and one of the suggestions was to make a list of scenes to write. I made a list of 7 scenes, figuring more would reveal themselves as I wrote.
What actually happened is that I’d barely put a long string of freelance work to bed by the time the project began, and I went into the project depressed, burned out, tired, overwhelmed, with no clue which of my projects I should even be focusing on. I got some parts of some of the scenes I’d planned to write written, but other days I felt like I was spewing word salad onto the page.
I did establish a routine- I read the day’s post on
, gave some thought to the guest writer’s essay, and dove into my work. I kept a document going with a section for each day’s count, and I did put down more than 1,000 words each day, but I dragged myself through them. It was not the sparkling start I’d imagined.Now I have a 50+ page document full of disjointed sections of writing. No two days of work focused on the same project- I have beginnings of essays, outlines for pitches, beginnings of Substack posts, a book review, a chapter of a novel I thought I’d finished, and a letter to my future self to be read on my first day as an empty nester (why?)
There’s good stuff in there, and my project for the rest of June is to sort it all out. I’m trying not to feel sad or embarrassed. I saw other writers’ posts about their progress, their Instagram-ready word count trackers and their daily setups, and I felt a little disappointed in myself.
Still, 20,000 words in two weeks is not nothing. I am trying to give myself more grace and remember that sometimes just being done, just seeing something through to completion, is enough.
I had an attack of The Big Scaries(TM) last week. Suddenly everything felt so flimsy, like it was all deteriorating, sand slipping through my fingers. All my conviction from January through May vanished. What am I doing? I kept thinking. Why did I think I could do this? Each time I stood up from my desk to walk around my apartment or put a dish in the sink or make a lunch salad I repeated, you can do this, you can do this, you can do this.
It’s exhausting trying to move through a sudden rush of panic and doubt. I end up inventorying all I’ve done so far and all the time I have in front of me, and then I have to talk myself OUT of doing that because writing is not a race, it’s not a competition, I have nothing to prove. Then I have to remind myself to breathe.
I wish I were more Zen-capital-Z. I wish I could float around, unaffected by the hustle and bustle of external stimuli, confident in the ebb and flow of my life. The closest I’ve gotten is the very welcome ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude that is slowly coming on with age.
I have a visualization I do when I’m nearing panic, which makes me feel just silly enough to knock me out of whatever head spiral I’ve spun myself into. I imagine I’m kayaking through an ice cave. The water is a deep, bright blue, almost electric. It’s cold, so cold my arms sting, but I’m refreshed because I love the cold and hate the heat (I have overwhelming seasonal depression in summer).
I push myself forward, alternating sides with the paddle and matching my movements to my breath. Inhale as I raise the paddle up, exhale as I tilt it down on my other side, push the water away, inhale. I imagine the motion of the kayak forward, the way it cuts through the water, the way the water looks like rippling glass. I let the clean cold of the ice sink into my skin. I’m able to breathe, slow my heart, find some clarity, as if the paddle cutting through the water is cutting through my anxious thoughts and pushing them away.
It’s hard, when I’m tired, to believe I’m working towards something that is attainable. When I started the year I felt limitless- like if I worked hard enough, I’d propel myself along until I got to a place where I’d feel safe. Then self-doubt swoops in like a vulture and shears huge strips of my self-assurance away until I’m left with nothing but bones. Resisting that sometimes becomes a full-time job, and it’s hard not to feel resentful in those moments.
There has been so much that has been encouraging over the last few months. I’m trying to hold fast to the belief that I’ll get to where I want to go if I keep pushing forward.
Thanks for keeping it real! I’m cheering you on.
Hooray! We are so so thrilled to have Elizabeth and her beautiful writing join us in October at the Turning Points retreat in New Mexico!