September Twenty-First

“If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.” ~ Margaret Atwood

There’s something about the week leading up to the autumn equinox that makes me more aware of my surroundings than at any other time of the year. Late September feels like the beginning to something I can never quite figure out. It must be related to the days of sharpening fresh pencils and wearing new sneakers that pinch toes because they haven’t been broken in yet. Daylight has begun to shorten and yet the hours somehow feel longer. The other day I asked myself, Do I move forward or stay in the same spot?

Recently I went on a short road trip getaway with my husband to the West Kootenays. We usually do that in August once work has slowed down a little for him. A few days to do nothing except float in mineral hot springs and take long, meandering walks along the lake. Pure bliss. This year we decided to go in September, thinking it would be less busy on the roads and it was. There were moments when it felt like we had mountainous highways all to ourselves and it gave me, the passenger, time to look at beautiful scenery, listen to classic rock, and think about where I am in my novel. That’s the only downside about taking a break from writing. The momentum gets lost.

I’ve spent most of my life thus far squeezing writing in when I can or when I feel motivated to do it. After closing my yarn shop a few years ago, I found myself with a lot more free time and no heavy business worries to focus on. It was the same weightless feeling of a busy school year ending and summer stretching out with endless possibilities. For the first time in a very long time I was able to focus on myself. At first I took some time to do nothing, really. Just putter about the house and organize messes I never got around to doing while working full-time. That’s the thing about mess, though, it always sneaks back in. At least it does for me. And I’m A-okay with that now because there’s so many other things I’d rather do than clean and sort and organize.

My mother told me something a long time ago when I was a young mom trying to balance work and kids’ activities and household chores etcetera etcetera. She said, “Nobody is remembered with perfect housekeeper written on their headstone, and if they are, well, isn’t that a damn shame?” I thought that was hilariously ironic then because my mom always worked outside the home and kept a fairly tidy house, and she still cleaned mine from top to bottom whenever she visited and I never knew if I should feel insulted about it or deeply grateful. I’ve only just realized she did that to give me a free moment to myself. Age and experience had taught her as it has me that mess will always come back no matter how hard we work to stay on top of it. It’s time for yourself that escapes far too easily.

These days I catch up on chores when I can and when I feel motivated to do so–the way I used to do with my writing. I’ve been meaning to clean my oven for three months. Almost every morning I tell myself I should do it over the summer before I use it more often in the fall and winter months. Then I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit down at my desk to write. One summer day I decided instead to put on the air conditioning and roast a turkey dinner with all the trimmings for the entire family in honour of my son-in-law’s birthday. If I was going to clean the oven anytime soon, maybe I should really mess it up first. It still hasn’t been cleaned, but that unexpected turkey dinner was delicious and seemed well-received by everyone.

A day or so after we returned from our road trip, once everything had been unpacked and washed and put away again, I sat down to continue working on my novel and the only word I can think of to describe how I felt is numb. So I pulled out my writing journal to try to make sense out of it and saw the last time I wrote in it was back in July. I try not to look over past pages in my journal. In fact, I use a clip to close previous pages so the next time I open it I can focus on what comes next. Since July I’ve been working almost daily on my novel and haven’t felt the need to question where I am in it. It’s a pattern, or so my journal reminded me when I did look back. Sometimes I write because there is no other alternative. It’s what I must do before everything else. Other times what made sense to me last week suddenly feels like a load of rubbish. Yesterday I wrote in my journal: I have stepped away and now the inner critic has stepped in.

Usually it helps when I’m stuck to go back and read my first chapter to remind myself what originally excited me about the characters and the story. I tried it and that’s when the numbness set in. Along with the question of do I move forward or stay where I am? I decided not to change a thing until I know for certain it’s me the writer and not me the fixer who is in control. At this point it would make perfect sense for me to tackle that dirty oven. I did open it one morning and made a face at it before closing the door. Then I picked up my knitting and put a record on the turntable and lost myself in the mindlessness of knitting a plain hat in the round to let my thoughts wander as they did along mountain roads.