I love reading what writers write about writing. They state how crucial writing is to their soul, how writing helps them convey their feelings and make sense of the world, how they can’t speak or eat or sleep until they have written and rewritten something. Writers, both fiction and non-fiction, both poets and memoirists, both journalists and essayists, they speak as if writing is a digestive process, upsetting their stomach and spirit until words appear on the page. They use grand metaphors to convey the importance of writing, like ocean tides rolling in to give life, or firework explosions, or carefully crafted recipes passed down over hundreds of years with hours of preparation going into the perfectly baked dish. Writers say that writing gives their soul rest.
And I understand this, I do. Writing has become crucial to my well-being. I feel better when I write. Writing helps me sort out my feelings, my thoughts. It helps me set goals. I feel accomplished and at peace when I’m writing, and disgruntled and discontent when I’m not. And for me, writing begets writing—when I write, I want to write more.
I’ve been writing more this past week, and it feels wonderful. I have to carve out time for it. I have to remove distractions from my life and sit down with coffee and a keyboard. I’m in a coffee shop now even, in a little Vegan café near a university in Halifax, Nova Scotia. It’s a half mile from where I’m staying. I made a decision to spend the first half of my day writing. During my twenty minute walk here, my brain rapid-fired ideas at me, and I had to carefully balance my heart and spirit and brain and gut and make a decision on what to spend my time on. There’s that graphic novel that’s been in my heart for over a year now. There is the sequel to my memoir. There’s a play that’s been in a slow-cooker for a while. There’s a few short story ideas, and a poem, and a blog. I want to write. I want to clear these ideas off the shelves and write so that I can create more space there, but I’m hesitant to start even one of these projects. Because I know that if I do, that finishing the project will take dozens of hours over dozens of weeks, and I will feel better if I do, but then I will have to commit myself to complete the thing, and then I will have to collaborate with others to try and make it happen, and that part always brings me pain and costs money and takes years. And even when I clear the space out, other projects will fill the shelves in my brain up and it will get all cluttered there, and so sometimes it is easier to just leave the projects on the shelves and not focus on them at all. I can just pretend that part of my brain doesn’t exist. I can just distract myself with other things. But that doesn’t work either, because not writing is far more frustrating than writing itself.
And now, suddenly, here I am writing about writing. And, as per usual, it helps, because I’m sorting these particular thoughts out, and there is peace there where just moments ago there was anxiety. Writing works, so long as I keep writing.
But now what? The inner publisher in me comes out. Who is my target audience? What am I writing this for? Is this an essay, a journal entry, a blog post, a book, an article, a story to be read aloud? If I begin this, will I be prepared to sustain it through to completion? Do I have the stamina, the inspiration, the discipline to get it there? And will anyone want to read it? And what results to I expect once I get it there?
The nice part about writing in journal form, as in just for me, is I can get my thoughts out and then save and be done. That’s all it takes. But then I’m frustrated that I’m not sharing it with anyone, because I want other people to read what I write. I want them to think it’s good, and valid, and inspiring. I want them to want to read it. And so maybe I can just writie a blog. The nice part about blogs is I can just write and post and then leave it there. A few dozen people will read, and no one will comment, but it is there. I shared it and now I can move on. But I’ve blogged hundreds of times and the audience isn’t wide enough to make a living as a writer, and that is maddening. And then I ask myself if that was my goal in the first place, to make a living, and if so, I have to network and change my tactics and increase my audience size, and all of those things drive me mad, so maybe it’s just easier not to write in the first place. But I’ve tried that too, and it doesn’t work.
This is my fourth day in Halifax. I needed this week. It restored my spirit. I miss my children, my boyfriend, my friends, my home, my routine, but these few days have allowed me to slip back into myself and find peace and inspiration again, something that has been missing for months. I’ve been walking again and exploring. I’ve exercised every day. My eating has been healthy. I’ve blogged four days in a row, about Canada, and music, and the ocean. My spirit and heart and gut and brain are all in a line again. And here I am writing about writing.
Sigh. Such drama within me about all of this.
I miss my kids, my family, my life, but I’m not ready to go home. I want to be selfish and stay here for a month. I want to develop a routine that centers around writing, balanced by sex, nutrition, and fitness, friendship and discovery, the energy I feel here, the ocean, the sense of wonder. I want to create something incredible, and back at home, it’s so hard to cultivate the discipline and freedom that that requires. I want to stay until I get lonely and sad, and then I want to push through that loneliness and sadness, using the emotions as fuel to make what I’m writing even more amazing. I want to stay until Halifax feels routine, and then stay a month longer until what I’ve written is perfect (whatever it is), complete, and then I edit it into something even better. I want to write. When I return home, I’m going to go back to feeling contained, unless I change some things, and those change scare me.
Yesterday morning, I woke up early, at 6 am, just to see the sunrise. I slipped on jeans, shoes, and a jacket. I grabbed a book to read, planning to sit in a big Adirondack chair near the water and watch the sunrise over the bay. I was perfectly at peace, despite my sore back and hungry stomach. I walked outside and down the dock, book in hand, and I watched the water ripple, all dark blacks and blues. The chilly breeze blew against me, carrying the scent of salt and open water, and it was perfection.
A super-handsome 19-year old jogged by and nodded at me, then he turned around. Breathing heavily, he looked me right in the eyes as he spoke.
“Hi there, do you mind if I ask what you do for a living?”
“I’m a writer,” I said, smiling at his curiosity.
“It’s just that, I don’t know, if I see someone out here on the dock this early, carrying a book, that’s the kind of person I want to know,” he said. He extended a hand. “I’m Brett. I want to write, too. May I ask what you write?”
Canadians are so damn polite, I thought. “I’m Chad. Well, I write lots of things. Depends on what is cooking in my brain. I’ve done comic books. I have a memoir out. I just finished a true crime documentary. I blog. I write essays, journals, poetry. But I find myself not writing far more than I actually write.”
“You’re extremely interesting. Can I ask for your Instagram? I’d like to message you later and maybe ask you some more questions?”
I smiled at his bizarre blend of confidence and curiosity. There was no flirtation here, just human connection. I felt strangely seen. “I’d like that, sure. Let’s meet for coffee tomorrow, before I return to the States.”
He took down my information, shook my hand again, then grinned. “I gotta run to keep my leg pump on. I’m doing a 75-day challenge of self-improvement. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Chad. Enjoy the sunrise.” And then he jogged away.
I muttered to myself with a smile. “Well, that just happened,” and then I turned back to the water and saw a harbor seal breach the surface, it’s black nose with long whiskers making a loud exhale sound, sending small rivulets of water into the air. “Oh my god,” I whispered, watching the creature for the next several minutes with absolute wonder before he disappeared again. The sun sent pink streamers across the water and the breeze blew and I felt temporary, and perfect.
After a day of adventures, I met Brett for coffee the next day. He greeted me with a smile and a firm handshake. “So, Chad, tell me your story. How did you become a writer?”
I laughed at how he just jumped right in, and I wished I’d had that confidence at his age. When I was 19, I was knocking on doors, trying to convince others to join a religion I didn’t really believe in. I was depressed, shut down, confused, and bound up. This young man was looking for inspiration everywhere, so confidently.
“That’s a very long story,” I said. We sat down with hot mugs of coffee and I started sharing.