Quietly over here doing a thing

Hello again. It’s been a year and a half since I’ve blogged. One could wonder why I’m paying the fees to maintain this website — I know I have.

Since I last posted about the high school musical that moved me so profoundly, I’ve done some things and become some things. No more than some — I do not wish to exaggerate my experiences or profess to be someone beyond what I am.

I traveled with my family to Ireland and Scotland. We botched the schedule — we aren’t good planners — and our airline participated in our folly by eliminating a day of our already-short trip. But I got a taste of this part of the world where at least part of my soul belongs, and I can’t wait to go back.

I’ve turned 50 years old. This has precipitated a great deal of life analysis and goal-setting with only vague ideas about how to accomplish these. (Carefully steering away from the word “crisis” here, because it’s not…exactly.)

I’ve gone through a mid-range evaluative process to determine whether I have ADHD (I do, “inattentive type”). I now take medicine that has mildly improved my symptoms, enough to make me feel like I’m not a failure every single day. This medicine, should you question the need for pharmaceuticals (not that I owe you an explanation), has not, in fact, made all my attention issues disappear, but has subtly mitigated them so that I can concentrate and follow through on tasks that I would normally delay or neglect completely — delightfully and miraculously without side effects. It’s really weird to notice that when picking up a piece of mail I don’t set it down in another place where I will “deal with it later”, but rather put it where it belongs (much of the time). Or think through my day ahead and anticipate what food I’ll need to stave off attention-stealing trouble later. I’m so very, very grateful, and believe it makes me feel like I probably should have my whole life. Projects still go unfinished, but my patience about this aspect of my existence has increased and my anxiety around not getting things done has decreased.

I’ve picked up a persistent and occasionally all-consuming fervor for listening to audiobooks. Hundreds in a couple of years. I’ve returned quite a few to the library after just a few minutes of listening because the narrator was hard to listen to and diminished the written story. These books have fed all corners of my personality and interests, so I can offer you recommendations but I will absolutely not tell you about every book, for reasons I’ll keep to myself for now.

I’ve been the primary parent accompanying my kid through a 6-month DBT program (dialectical behavioral therapy). She participated under duress, but it was good for all of us, including my spouse who was supportive and grew along with us.

I’ve asked for — and received — a sabbatical from my work. For two months this past summer I set down all work responsibilities and all of the extra stuff I carry around in my head and did other things. This is not a gift everyone receives from their place of employment, which I know, and I’m reluctant to flaunt it if it’s something you need but is out of reach. My church (and employer) is full of rock stars who care about people — they have always been good to me. Sabbatical was life-giving in the way that boring things can allow space for rest and growth. I didn’t go on radically amazing excursions or travel widely or accomplish anything huge beyond refurbishing our kitchen cabinets. But I did have space to host a longtime, far-flung friend and her daughter, which was a gift in itself, and to reconnect with high school friends that remind me of who I used to be and how much that links with who I still am. A sliver of sabbatical that I have carried with me is the permission to rest when I need it — that would be my wish for you, too.

And when I had exhausted all other realistic plans and came to the end of excuses during sabbatical, I started a novel. As one kid is out there in the college world figuring out his studies and career and relationships and living on his own, another is here at home figuring out how to get herself out of bed and hold a job and finish homework and generally make sudden gigantic strides in maturity. It’s so lovely and unsettling. Now what do I do with myself, without being so completely wrapped up in every bit of these kids’ lives? I guess I write a novel. I could not let myself dream about this forever because even starting it felt so out of reach. I didn’t even whisper this to my soul until now. It’s RIDICULOUS that this writer who began, but didn’t finish (yay ADHD!) so, so, so many stories in my youth, this college English writing major, took so long to listen to my heart. An idea finally stuck, and I’ve begun to develop processes for taking notes, purchased both a laptop and software that is helping me move forward and will carry me through, taken a novel-writing class through the Loft that I completely adored, and have signed up to participate in NANOWRIMO, though with my own goal rather than the completely absurd 50,000 words that’s the typical goal. I’ve invested. I bought the T-shirt. And if the universe cooperates, in a dozen or so years I may actually have a book released from this head and these hands into the great white somewhere where occasionally someone will stumble upon it and pick it up and maybe even laugh or think “I never thought about it like this before”.

I know some things about the story — who some of the people are, where it takes place, some things that happen — but I’m not going to tell you what it’s about yet. I’m kind of scared to. Like all of my writing, I have this intense proclivity for holding my project unhelpfully close until I feel really, really ready for it to be examined by others. I’m working on this, the “letting go and letting it be what it will” thing. I will tell you out loud right here and now that being connected in various loose ways to others who have had novels published is incredibly inspiring, the realization of which was likely the catalyst that finally tipped me into action. Normal, extraordinary, lovely, busy people write novels. I hope to be one of them. It’s completely terrifying to put down in print imaginative situations and people that have come straight from my brain. It might not be good, in all seriousness. But it might be. We don’t know yet, do we?

One of the questions in my Loft class, “Pantsing” Your Novel (verses “plotting” it), was “how do you want readers to respond?” Well, I want you to see yourself in it. I want you to realize you feel the same way, or the opposite way, or have completely mixed feelings about what’s going on. I want you to laugh and cry and experience a particular perspective for a little bit. And I want it to be a best-seller. Duh. Nobody admits it, but it’s true. Meanwhile, I’ve started it. I’m living with it. If all I do between now and forever is have some parts of it drafted and eventually a descendant discovers my long-lost unfinished manuscript, it’s OK. I’m trying to lean into the unknown and begin worthy endeavors without a clue how they’ll unfold. I’m trying to trust myself and the future.

So that’s what’s going on over here. Day by day just living and parenting and working and doing the dishes and enjoying “Sprucey” painted cupboards and sitting on the deck with neighbors and occasionally going for a walk in the neighborhood. And writing a novel.