My summer writing life has officially begun. I will be writing new material, collecting, curating and revising old material culled from book-upon-book of scribbles, publishing to my blog, and continuing a novel I started many years ago, and perhaps even reviving my YA novel I began pre-pandemic. I don’t have a definitive plan, and, as always, this seems a bit scattered. There is so much I want to write about, so much I want to complete, and so many genres I am dabbling in.
I guess more than anything I want to experience a writer’s daily life. This is the summer where I have time and even some semblance of routine since we will be staying in China rather than globe-trotting, as we usually do. I will mostly be sleeping in my own bed, and when not, I look forward to writing in enclaves of China that will welcome a writing woman in a coffee/tea shop; a hotel room with a view will also do nicely as will a pool-side lounger. I’m not adverse to wearing a caftan and large sunglasses or even sipping on a cocktail as I scribe.
Presently I am in my own bed, propped up by pillows, having just finished my coffee. I have yet to walk the dog or meditate. These will usually be things I accomplish first: routine things that will set the stage. Today I was excited, though, it being my first day. I wanted to get right to it. I don’t expect I will be writing two hours straight, as a rule, but when I do, I imagine the writer’s way of life will proudly thrum through these weak writing veins.
I want to find out what a writing life could feel like/look like/sound like/smell like: fully experience what being a writer might be like absent of other obligations. The introspection and solitary nature of this lifestyle is hugely appealing to me. Since fourth grade, I imagined myself being a writer. I started as a poet and short story kind of gal, graduating to morose novels by seventh grade, and devolving into long and rather depressive but powerful pieces as my 20s slogged and I found myself adrift and unhappy with the circumstances I had allowed myself to fall into through religious sanctions I imposed on myself and the idea that I had to follow a set of rules that were ridiculously unflattering on me.
In my thirties I was too happy to be writing much: adventure and new love was calling. This continued into my 40s with two daughters arriving and further disrupting plans for introspection and Leah time.
Now at 56, I have written and published a fair amount: a novel, blogs, articles, 45 podcasts of Two Chit Chat Chicks to date along with numerous speeches, but I have yet to have had an extended, creative time of just writing and doing little else in the way of creative “work.” There has always been schooling or careering and parenting. So here I am with the summer in front of me and fewer obligations than I’ve had in some years and I truly do desire to fill much of my time with writing. For the love of it. For the fun of it. For the experiment of it. For the routine of it. For the “can I really do this?” of it.
That said, I already have a twinge in my shoulder and my left wrist is revisiting its days of carpal tunnel throb. How can this be after a scant 20 minutes of writing? There are so many forces conspiring against me – social media, laziness, my own body! But I will persist. I’ll find a different place to write; perhaps my bed is not the best idea anyway. I will take stretching breaks. I will reposition and build up my frail wrists. I will turn off access to my internet. (Really, Leah?)
I don’t want my diurnal writing to take on a diary form necessarily, though I am okay if it does some of the time. I will cull out the best, most shareable bits, and insert them in blogs or my novel or perhaps even turn them into poetry.
That’s the thing: I don’t quite know what to do with all this writing I will do and have already collected in copious notebooks of scrawny scribbles. While my writer’s life has not been consistent or prolific, it has added up over these 56 years. There are a lot of words I’ve jumbled together, and as I mine through the detritus, I am finding a few gems that merit polishing.
If you know me, you’ll know I’m a sharer. I don’t want to write just for writing sake. I write to share. It gives me joy. It lightens my soul. It gives me affirmation. It’s part of my writer’s process, if not everybody’s. We teach kids in writer’s workshop that publication is the final product. In our day of blogging and self-publication, this is an easy ask. For someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, this shouldn’t be a problem.
So wish me luck and I’ll keep you posted!
