Time or The Promise of Time
Last week I wrote about when the writing is hard, and then the thing happened that always happens eventually, which is that, suddenly, it wasn’t.
Suddenly, I started adding new words to the novel again, rather than tinkering with old sentences or taking refuge in other projects. Suddenly, the world of my characters felt accessible again, like they wanted to be written about.
I have been waiting patiently for this moment since last summer. I have been showing up each morning, nothing if not diligent. I have been stretching toward branches just out of my reach.
What changed? Nothing about my morning writing routine (unless you count the fact that it’s become even more unpredictable, as my toddler has recently discovered that he can get out of bed). The only thing I can point to is that some recent events have freed me up emotionally.
We are settling back into our apartment, and it’s feeling more like home.
I had an important but kind of heavy conversation with someone I love (HI MOM).
I worked out a schedule with my partner where he’ll take the kid for a while on Saturdays so that I have protected time to write.
Maybe it’s simply that the days are getting longer. The promise of time is a powerful thing.
Whatever it was, something clicked into place. I started working on scenes I’d been picturing but hadn’t felt ready to go into. The story is flowing again. It is important to celebrate these days. I am grateful.