The Light of the Season
The Christmas tree is decorated. No small feat this year. After we chopped it down it lived on the porch for a while. Tom cursed and muttered when he finally brought it in, for in the true Christmas tradition the middle strand of lights would not light. Then the tree sat, free of ornaments for another week.
This week, dozens of people I know have been laid off at work. Each night I have come home exhausted. Tom and I have looked at each other and said “maybe tomorrow” for the ornaments and the house decorations. He hauled the boxes down from the attic. They sat in our hallway, which looked like the hallway of a family that was moving out, or perhaps being evicted.
Friday night was a big sigh of relief, and we took that extra bit of oxygen and fueled our Christmas spirit. This was the first year that Gavin could really help decorate. I told stories of our special ornaments from the top of Mount Washington, from New Orleans, from Gavin’s first Christmas. Not one ornament was broken. We had takeout from the noodle house. Tom and I “clinked” our wine in a toast with Gavin’s sippy cup.
All week I looked out at that tree on the porch. I didn’t have time for it, but I gave it a secret nod, reserving some hope for the day when the tree would glimmer. This is how my writing career has been. An idea that needs polishing rests on the porch of my mind. I finally invite it in and put it down on paper. Verbs that do not work and misplaced adjectives reside untouched on my hard drive. Finally, a moment to breathe. A fresh printout of my draft, subtraction and addition of words with happy purpose. Then, stepping back, a completed piece that shines.
Other than the occasional insomniac burst of compressed prolific production, or a rare writing retreat weekend, this is how my writing develops. Fits and starts, dormancy, apathy or despair, resurrection. Some pieces are finally finished more than a year later.
Sometimes I wish it were otherwise. I wish that every day I could start with a long stretch in my bathrobe, a thoughtful cup of coffee, then a few hours of writing. Maybe a nap, then some editing. Another chapter drafted, a sense of satisfaction by dinner.
But I have chosen to be a mother, and, for now at least, to put finances before my wish for creative abandon. Motherhood and work consume my days. If I won the lottery I would be drafting my resignation letter (no writer’s block there!). But motherhood is something I chose, and I keep choosing it every day. It is another circular act of trying, failing, making headway, and it finally results in breakthrough moments of joy. The joy, often packaged in small incidents, affirms my choice. Gavin uses manners without prompting; he runs around the house in a fit of giggles; he drapes his arm over my neck and grins happily as he falls asleep beside me. Yes, I tell myself, I am doing a good job. Yes, it is worth it. Yes, I am exhausted, at wit’s end sometimes. Yes, I would do it all over again.
I hold on to my fantasy of the long cup of coffee while my writing plan for the day before me brews. But I know that writers who have the luxury of time are not always visited by the muse. They also have their fits and starts, their distractions, their sense of failure. Although it may feel that way, none of us are alone in our struggle.
Next Saturday is Christmas Eve. Unless the muse pounds on my door with fierce urgency, I may just skip my weekly blog. I will be wrapping Gavin’s gifts and making the bourbon molasses sauce for the ham. While I wash the dishes, though, I will be considering the next thing I want to write. I love that my writing is always there in the background for me, like the Christmas tree that signaled hope on my porch.
Wishing you the light of the season,
Katherine
This week, dozens of people I know have been laid off at work. Each night I have come home exhausted. Tom and I have looked at each other and said “maybe tomorrow” for the ornaments and the house decorations. He hauled the boxes down from the attic. They sat in our hallway, which looked like the hallway of a family that was moving out, or perhaps being evicted.
Friday night was a big sigh of relief, and we took that extra bit of oxygen and fueled our Christmas spirit. This was the first year that Gavin could really help decorate. I told stories of our special ornaments from the top of Mount Washington, from New Orleans, from Gavin’s first Christmas. Not one ornament was broken. We had takeout from the noodle house. Tom and I “clinked” our wine in a toast with Gavin’s sippy cup.
All week I looked out at that tree on the porch. I didn’t have time for it, but I gave it a secret nod, reserving some hope for the day when the tree would glimmer. This is how my writing career has been. An idea that needs polishing rests on the porch of my mind. I finally invite it in and put it down on paper. Verbs that do not work and misplaced adjectives reside untouched on my hard drive. Finally, a moment to breathe. A fresh printout of my draft, subtraction and addition of words with happy purpose. Then, stepping back, a completed piece that shines.
Other than the occasional insomniac burst of compressed prolific production, or a rare writing retreat weekend, this is how my writing develops. Fits and starts, dormancy, apathy or despair, resurrection. Some pieces are finally finished more than a year later.
Sometimes I wish it were otherwise. I wish that every day I could start with a long stretch in my bathrobe, a thoughtful cup of coffee, then a few hours of writing. Maybe a nap, then some editing. Another chapter drafted, a sense of satisfaction by dinner.
But I have chosen to be a mother, and, for now at least, to put finances before my wish for creative abandon. Motherhood and work consume my days. If I won the lottery I would be drafting my resignation letter (no writer’s block there!). But motherhood is something I chose, and I keep choosing it every day. It is another circular act of trying, failing, making headway, and it finally results in breakthrough moments of joy. The joy, often packaged in small incidents, affirms my choice. Gavin uses manners without prompting; he runs around the house in a fit of giggles; he drapes his arm over my neck and grins happily as he falls asleep beside me. Yes, I tell myself, I am doing a good job. Yes, it is worth it. Yes, I am exhausted, at wit’s end sometimes. Yes, I would do it all over again.
I hold on to my fantasy of the long cup of coffee while my writing plan for the day before me brews. But I know that writers who have the luxury of time are not always visited by the muse. They also have their fits and starts, their distractions, their sense of failure. Although it may feel that way, none of us are alone in our struggle.
Next Saturday is Christmas Eve. Unless the muse pounds on my door with fierce urgency, I may just skip my weekly blog. I will be wrapping Gavin’s gifts and making the bourbon molasses sauce for the ham. While I wash the dishes, though, I will be considering the next thing I want to write. I love that my writing is always there in the background for me, like the Christmas tree that signaled hope on my porch.
Wishing you the light of the season,
Katherine
posted by Katherine H | 2:37 AM
1 Comments:
Wow Kathy. Wow. This is a really solid entry. My, my. I love it! And I'm glad to hear you're holding onto that bathrobe/cup of coffee dream, because I'm sure you'll get there. Speaking as someone who gets to do that more now (but still, not every day - I DO work part time), I appreciate your foresight into the fact that that existence also has it's challenges. Keep up the good work. Here's a hint/prompt (not because I think you need it, but mostly because I think you can blog next week if you really want to):
Don't feel you have to write about writing. Blog on Christmas day instead, and give us a short 250-500 words that paints a picture of a favorite, colorful moment you have for that day.
Just a thought.
Peace,
Katey
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