In late December I finished the fourth draft of my novel-in-progress. And then, for the next two months, I didnât write a single word of fiction.Â
Instead, I sent this newsletter and launched an advice column. I started my stitch-a-day project to the delight of my Instagram friends. I read some very good books, completed a very hard puzzle, and finally succumbed to Love Is Blind. I practiced yoga and took the dog on extra long walks. I did my best to let my brain rest, which is not an easy thing.Â
Iâm a creature of habit (understatement of the century) and even though I wasnât working on my novel, I still woke up early every morning and sat at my desk, cup of coffee in hand, laptop open as the sun slowly rose. It was tempting to barrel right into the next project, the next draft. Iâd shown upâthe hard part was over! But I wasnât ready. Anyone can type a sentence; I needed to wait until I had something to say.Â
And then, a few days ago, the seed of a short story began rolling around in my head. I decided to plant it, to see if it would bloom.
I quickly learned that when it comes to short stories, eight years of novel writing has left me woefully out of practice. As I drafted, I could feel myself drifting back to the well-worn ideas in my book. A narrator who struggles with isolation and disappointment, an illicit affair with an authority figure. I was writing the same thing, just in miniature. Which is fine, I guess, except I wanted to say something new.Â
On the second pass, I took out the affair and made the relationship unrequited. Okay, I thought. Thatâs slightly better. Instead of asking, âWhat happens when we become too lonely?â I wondered, âWhat happens when we get too attached?â A minor twist, but it was enough. Now weâre getting somewhere. The story still isnât good, but it has room to grow. The important thing is that I want to return to it, to see how it will end.Â
When it comes to art, I truly believe habits and routines are our greatest tools. But habits can keep us locked into old patterns; routines can make our work feel, well. Routine. Just because something worked for a season doesnât mean you have to do it forever. After all, seasons change.
Earlier this week, while taking the dog on a very slow walk, I noticed the azaleas in my neighborhood were beginning to bud.
For most of the year, azaleas look like ordinary green bushes, nondescript, nothing special. But during that brief window when theyâre in bloom, my city is transformed. The azaleas are shameless, hold nothing back. Theyâre loud flowers, large and colorful and a little bit obnoxious in their exuberance. The neighborhoods and parks are a riot of pinks and reds. We throw a literal festival to celebrate them. And then, almost as quickly as they arrive, theyâre gone, and we move to the next flower.
Which is a long way of saying weâre at the end of one season, and at the beginning of another. Even if you sit at the same desk, drink from the same mug, watch dawn slip through the same window, something is changing. Something is different. Maybe you canât tell what it is right away, but the moment you do? Thatâs it.
Thatâs art.
Can You Relate? Update
Thanks to everyone who tuned into the first installment of my advice column about writing, motivation, inspiration, and the zen of creating art. Iâve decided to make this a semi-regular feature, which Iâll send once a month as a bonus issue. If you donât care about my advice (fair enough), you can unsubscribe from just that section. Questions will be accepted on a rolling basisâsubmit yourâs here and Iâll add it to the queue! đ
Snack Break
Iâve spent the last few days in New Jersey, visiting my beloved three and a half year old nephew (and my sisters, my mom, and my brother-in-law, all of whom fully realize they come second). In between endless games and activities and conversations, weâve also shared many good meals. The best one was a breakfast order from a local bagel shop. I got an everything bagel with egg and cheese, he had an egg and cheese sammie, and he allowed me to photograph them before we ate. (A true toddler miracle.) đĽŻ
Relatable Reads
đ What Do You Do After the MFA?, Catapult
â[A]bout a year after graduating, when I settled into a new job and apartment, the writing came back. I constantly reconfigure my time: One month I touch the novel draft every day, in any small way; another I wake up early to write before work; another I draft only by hand.â
I graduated from the same MFA program as Rachel Ranie Taube, the author of this essay, though we did not overlap. Still, I found her experience extremely relatable and enjoyed this essay very much. I think you will, too.
đ How a Book is Made, New York Times*
âThere is still something miraculous about a book, about seeing it. It took me so long to find a publisher when I was starting out, you know. Just the fact of a printed book is something that I donât think Iâll ever get over.â
This interactive article follows a novel from Word document to bound book, and I thought it was just beautiful. I think one of the reasons I want to publish a novel so much is because of its physicalityâyouâve created something worth making real.
đ How Covid Stole Our Time and How We Can Get It Back, New York Times*
â[T]he life weâll be living 10 years from now will largely be determined not by our past selves but by our present and future selves. If we imagine what we might regret down the road, itâs very much in our hands to do something about it now.â
Opportunity abounds!!!
*NYT gift linkâno subscription needed, and clicking wonât count toward your free articles!
Coffee Club
Thank you to Lisa M. for the incredibly generous donation last week!
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Thank you for sharing the NYT article for free. <3 That was fascinating!
Thank you for continuing to share your writing and life progress with us every two weeks!