Clarity

Now that The Hellebore Society has been out for a week (you can get your copy here if you haven’t yet!) it’s time for me to dive back into the sequel to Mud Witch! I’ve been working on it for a while, but between finalizing The Hel and all the end of year holidays, I honestly can’t wait for some quiet mornings to just…write.

My kids leave early for school these days, which means that if I’m at all diligent, I can be sitting at my table by seven and done with my writing by lunchtime. There is a real beauty in those morning hours and an even more wonderful feeling of accomplishment when I stand up, stretch out, and have time to get outside.

It’s easy for me to forget the importance of the last part. Now that I work primarily from my kitchen table, I can go a whole day without getting outside if I’m not careful. And while that is extremely appealing when I’m warm and comfortable, it’s also extremely bad for me. There’s a tunnel vision that can set in, where the project becomes the only important thing and nothing else really matters. While that is productive, it’s also not very conducive to creativity.

Tunnel vision is what keeps me writing a plot that is no longer working. Tunnel vision is what keeps me banging my head against the desk, trying to make up for the wrong direction by writing prettier words. Tunnel vision is what eventually paralyzes me with self-doubt.

It’s only by stepping away that I gain the clarity to actually do my job. For a long time, I was a work hard, work hard kind of person. Even when I wasn’t working, I would think about work. Perhaps that’s because I’m not always so good at the playing part. It’s easier to do things that feel important and bring a sense of accomplishment. It’s harder, somehow, to choose not to forgo those feelings.

I’m not talking about simply slumping into the couch at the end of the day. That’s easy. I’m talking about stepping away from work and stepping into play. Putting precious commodities, time and energy, into activities that are anything but useful. It feels risky somehow. What if I go to all that effort and it’s not restorative? What if it’s not even fun? What if I make that choice and come back to my desk and I’m no more creative or productive that I was before?

Those questions show the flaw in my thinking, don’t they? The idea that fun, the rest, is only there in order to feed the work. That if I return from my break still mired in tunnel vision then there was no point in taking it at all. What if I looked at things a different way?

What if I do all that productive work to make my fun more satisfying? It sounds bizarre to me, but then I think of working in my garden on hot summer days and sitting down afterwards to drink the best glass of water I’ve ever had. I think of cleaning my house and cooking dinner for friends, just to be able to enjoy sitting with them, knowing that everything is done. Or getting to a Friday night, tired and spent, but ready to sit down with a good book I’ve been wanting to read all week.

Maybe the fun is the point. Maybe if I start thinking about it differently, I’ll remember that I write not just to have the words on the page, but to experience that first, glorious stretch after I stand up and look at a job well done.