One of the very most useful discussions I had in a writing workshop was how we would continue to write over the summer when we didn’t have to turn in a poem every week or every other week.
Of course I don’t remember any of the techniques our professor or my classmates suggested, but just the fact that the professor brought it up as an important class item helped me think about it. That’s the thing about writing, no one can tell you exactly what to do to get it done.
I have successfully written 300 words a day for two days. So now I feel as if I have bragging rights, and can tell you what to do. But here’s the thing. Writing is one of my favorite things about myself even though I whine up a storm about doing it.
Christmas is complicated (although not nearly as complicated as when we had to go visit two families, two nursing homes, and negotiate stays between sisters, friends, and dog-friendly households). There is a nice independent coffeeshop near my sister-in-law’s house. DP and I go there at least once to get some work done and to support them.
I could write 300 words there, slightly more than a page. I can remind myself that I’m not the polite in-law, or the bratty youngest child. I can stake a very short claim on who I am when I write.
Once, when I was in a much more emotionally dire situation, I kept a haiku journal. It was the faintest whisper of poetry that I could write before bed, reminding me that I wasn’t just watching my mother recover from chemotherapy. I was also a writer. Hi, I’m still here.
Hi, I’m still here.
How do you survive the holidays?