The Summer Doldrums

A time to write and a time not to write

Photo by Dylan Hunter on Unsplash

On spent squirrels

Have you ever seen a squirrel do this? Stretch out, utterly spent?

Once, in the month of another long ago August, I saw one like this lying over the edge of my in-laws’ cabin porch rail, limbs useless and hanging there for hours. I wondered and worried. I would go by, others would walk by. The animal was inert. Later, I mentioned it to a friend who’d grown up in the prairies, and he told me some wild story about how this is what happens when squirrels have exhausted themselves preparing for winter (and a whole other horrible story about his older brother picking them up in this condition—defenseless—and tossing them around. I can only hope they were SO limp that they landed okay. We didn’t get into the details; I was afraid to hear.)

In about a week from now, I expect to look something like this. (Though I’d prefer a hammock hanging from the tree branch, thank you.) Certainly after the six day hike we’ve planned, I know I will. (Please, no one shot-put me!)

That point in the year

Publishers are shut down for the month of August, as they are in December, too. I am still waiting on word from one, but I know it’s pointless to query about anything until after Labour Day at earliest. (I’ll let you know the answer. Months ago, in a first-of-the-month newsletter, I let you know that I had done an on-spec re-vision for an editor. Since then, it’s been hurry-up-and-wait.)

And the few weeks left—is it even that long?—will go quickly, filled with hiking and music and visits before everyone returns to routine. Somehow these days of less sunlight do seem shorter in terms of how much I can actually fit in. Which doesn’t make sense—it’s the same number of hours. But darkness at eight p.m.—okay, duskiness—does shorten. Maybe it’s the sharpness of mind dulled.

I have asked a lot of myself in the past year plus. Writing—in all its forms and disparate pieces—has been centre for months. And will be for the coming months: I’ve set myself both goals and routine, and I can’t see that changing until certain things are accomplished. This is not just “me” pressure; the major story-line in the historical novel I’m currently working on does have a looming 500th anniversary! Which is motivating. I’ve put this project off as long as I dare while completing another. I do plan on taking a break after its completion—a break of novel-writing, at least. Novel-writing is full immersion, and takes a toll. What have you been up to? There are some keen and busy writers here.

Deliberate ‘Not-Writing’

This would be a good time of year to plan this. Granted, you know when you need such a break. Sometimes it just happens. Sometimes it has to happen.

There are times when you find you simply can’t write, and times you can’t because of life stuff (moving, illness, major change), and times—yes—when you don’t want to.

Let’s look at a deliberate decision not to write. What does that look like?

If you’ve been writing a long time, you know—or can remember—that eventually you’ll make your way back. There’s something reassuring in that. If you let it be. It can also be terrifying. Much like the fear around “Will I ever finish another book?” there can be the question of “will I ever write again?”

And worse, in many ways, if you are relatively new to this writing thing, if you haven’t stopped and started again before now. Or maybe you have before and what you went through to resume the work is painful to remember.

It’s easy to say “writers write,” and there is truth to it. But it’s a bit too glib for those times when you’re really doubting. Doubting can eat into you.

The Buoy in the Middle of the Lake

A summertime analogy. When you are not prepared to cross the entire lake, you need to be able to see the buoy you are going to swim to.

If you are going to take a break, I suggest you first find this buoy: it’s the day that you intend to return to writing. It can be a specific date, or it might be when you’ve met another type of deadline. It’s to hold on to, and to go toward. When you are ready.

Along with the adage of “Writers write” (I’ll add ‘as much as they can’) are the words about “Writers can set themselves deadlines, and stick to them. And know when not to.”

I learned about deadlines through homeschooling as a kid in grade four when I did correspondence, and finished that grade in the month of March after setting daily and weekly deadlines for myself. The self-employed learn how to do this. Artists, if they are going to survive, do this. It is one of the most basic writing skills: set a deadline, and honour it. In honouring the deadline, you honour your very self and the project, too.

But always a caveat. Know when to stretch the deadline, to take the project to a deeper level, to the level it deserves. Honouring—a key concept here. For a long time after I began to write, I didn’t understand how to “deepen” so I focused on meeting the deadlines. Slowly, I learned how to go deeper. And will spend the rest of my life learning. But I have the deadline thing solidly in place. If it wasn’t, I’d get nothing done.

Your deadline is the buoy. But for now, you have those stomach cramps that your mom told you never to swim with, and you’re going to stay on the beach. Mom’s orders.

What does this deliberate time look like for a writer who needs to be writing?

I’ll admit, I’m pretty miserable when I’m not writing. It comes out in small but meaningful ways: a snap of words toward a loved one; a certain impatience with everything around me; a lack of enjoyment about the actions and pastimes I usually do enjoy. Somehow, when I am not actively writing, everything else holds less colour and flavour.

So if I’m going to acknowledge my need for a break, and not write, I need to be doing something that makes that work.

Do something that looks like you Did Something!

One thing I struggle with: at the end of a tough writing day, a day in which I’ve written 242 words or over 2000, there is nothing to show for either number! I know what I’ve done, and in the case of 2000, it feels like a Good Day. But one reality is that it’s entirely possible I’ll look at those pages the following day and cut half or maybe all.

So a break might be all about cleaning something that was a (physical) near-disaster—sorting through the mounds of paper you’ve been ignoring. Doing the pile of mending (does anyone do this anymore?) Cleaning that room you’ve been meaning to. Fixing something.

Ah, my favourite: painting a room in a most dramatic colour change. THIS always feels so good. Another favourite: Fill a box to take to the thrift shop. No, fill six boxes. Clear out Stuff.

Bonus: all of this type of activity gets you away from writing—it really is a break—AND it cleans out your mental space for when you do return to writing. I imagine the squirrel does some equivalent of this after he gets up from lying around on the tree branch or the porch rail…

Do the research you’ve been putting off—go joyfully down any rabbit hole that appears!

Every writing project has some sort of research. Do it now. Take your time with it. INDULGE your time. The rabbit holes of writing have a purpose—go down them. Take notes. Record your sources. Reserve library books. Read through their bibliography, and reserve more. Be expansive about this work. Share it with others; I find that talking about my research lends excitement, and in the telling, story ideas take shape. You see your listeners eyes change shape, you see what connects with them, you take mental note, and bring this to your work.

Take time to think about, instead of write about

I used to make certain that I carried a means to scribble notes whenever I left my house. But one day, I discovered that there is something to be gained by leaving such behind. The act of mulling can be significant. To walk and mull, to clean house and mull, to drive and mull… fixate on a story point and thoroughly think through. Think it to the point it is embedded in your memory. Let it sit and grow.

Conversely…

Don’t allow your mind to give one minute to your story! Head it off at the pass! Cut.

This I suggest if you’ve been struggling with a work, picking away at it, and unable to produce for a bit of time. Just let it go. This break time might be about a total mind-clear of the thing. Consciously push at it.

(In the comments you might want to share about this: non-writing can be an active decision. Some projects need this before you can go on. There are times when you feel you’ve gone down a wrong path, and need a turnaround, or some bit of light and understanding about where you are to go next.)

A little absence and abstinence can go a long way…

An absence of something can reveal its presence. This pulling back, or pushing away, this emptying, can be very purposeful; the void will fill. You can watch this happen, or walk away and come back later to see what is in its place. Maintain a playful sense—don’t panic about the process. Remember: you’ve set a date to return. If all else fails.

And a little abstinence can make you hungry. That’s a good thing. When you do return to writing, you’ll value it. You’ll have taken a step back. You might be seeing anew or more clearly.

On your chosen day, you will make your way to that buoy

I write this as much for you as for me: Enjoy the swim, the getting from shore to buoy. The sensation of the water, possibly waves, the smells of the water, the shouts of children on the beach, the sounds of splashing. The far away, or not so far away, motor-boat roar. The shouts as a water-skier goes down. The smell of summer—or fall—barbecue.

Think about your mental lake. Think about when you have days with no or few interruptions, and you can work all day—memorize that feeling! Replicate it in your writing times that are interrupted, that are shorter than you’d like…

Feel rejuvenated for the months ahead.

Photo by Patrick Boucher on Unsplash

Where are you at with this end-of-summer? Are you needing a break-time? Prepping for the 3 Day Novel or a winter project? Just need a breather?

Let’s hear about it —