What a quiet month, this January! I can blame a number of things: my deep abiding love of staying home when it’s cold and wet out, my tendency to stop talking and start philosophizing when the year turns itself over to the next, and a new sensation, one that has been sneaking up on me like the first overnight snow of winter: a rare animal called contentment.
January is traditionally the time of year when my friends derisively call me an old lady, and leave frustrated messages on my voicemail, have whole conversations with me via Facebook, and rarely see me out of oversize sweaters and fleece socks. The first month of the year also has me armed with fresh excuses for not seeing that fabulous band, not meeting thither, not waiting for a bus on the other side of town, thankyou. I fall into an easy rhythm during the dark weekdays: bike home from work, shower, put on pajamas, and turn off the outside world.
And while those who have enough patience to consider themselves in my social circles protest, Winter and I are perfectly happy with our arrangement, thankyou. I actually enjoy my self-imposed solitude. Because while the calendar whirls along, schedules and parties and adventures and gatherings and new budgets and programs and classes crank the world back into efficiency after the decadent rush of the Christmas season, I stay home and ponder.
The married ones among us know the pull to home is even greater when a real-life teddy bear awaits you, popcorn made, DVD in hand. The urge of the single woman to venture out into the winter night in a cute but flimsy cocktail dress is no longer in my repertoire.
I’ve always secretly been a homebody. Yes, I used to rouse the lazy rabble with cries of “Paint the town! Seize the day!” and chafe at the quiet nights of country living when everything closes at 7pm, but now I’m just as likely to be the one on the couch, ensconced in an idea, unwilling to put on my dancing shoes anymore.
Let me put it another way. If you told me that tonight the Queen was throwing a party in my honour, and had invited all my favorite movie stars and intellectuals, and a limousine was downstairs waiting to whisk me away to the gala affair, I’d sigh, readjust the pillows, and mumble, “Do I really have to be there?”
I also tend to hoard supplies during January: my freezer is nearing capacity with hearty soups and stews, while the cupboards are full of cans and containers of everything one might possibly need to make more soups and stews.
I don’t know if this post is an apology, gentle reader, or a promise, but it does have a point.
You see, while it looks, for all intents and purposes, to the world outside, and to my dear, frustrated friends and family, as if there’s nothing moving in this little corner of humanity, that’s not the case.
In fact, quite the opposite. I haven’t needed entertainment or much interaction because my thoughts have been tumbling about, creating new projects like kids throwing snowballs – the ideas have been coming fast and furious. If you wanted to be mean, you’d call me a frog in the frozen mud, but I’ll take even that, for down here in the warmth of solitude, things are happening. Things delicious and rough, raw and jumbled, scribbled onto pages of secret notebooks and squirreled away. It’s as if the seeds of rich experience over the past few years have finally germinated, and I’ve got a full-fledged…dare I say it…real writing project on my nervous hands. (I am loathe to
be more specific, at least until I have something to show for it). Well, to be technical, it’s still mostly in my imagination, a piece of psychic machinery that is working overtime, composting and rewriting, pondering and daydreaming these quiet January days away. I’ve been hoarding my time and emotional energy, and coaxing the surprising seeds of creativity that sprung up over Christmas.
So call me a hermit if you please, and forgive the lack of posts. I’m okay with hiding out for a little while longer, under the thick floes of winter, while the deep below moves swiftly.
What a tease! “Things delicious and rough, raw and jumbled” “seeds of rich experience”, “the deep below moves swiftly”
Don’t be concerned that your post will sound like an apology….it is obviously not. In fact, you sound quite pleased with how you are spending your time….as you should be…it all sounds wonderful…..to lose yourself in the writing, and to hell with distractions like lovers,friends, family, work, and anything else that takes time away from turning that tumbling flow of thoughts and images into words that flow equally well on the page.
That is what a good writer does. (as an aside, that thought brings up an interesting conflict inherent in both the title and the re-occurring theme of this blog…most good writers tend to be quite poor relationship risks. They tend to put most of their cultivation skills, and efforts, into their writing rather than their relationships. That truth leaves many good writers losing multiple partners and having children who often, in their later years, lament their lack of intimate parenting. It’s a fine line….etc., etc)
The concept of “promise”, here, is more problematic……there obviously is one…..both from the writer to herself, and to her readers. That the final product may not live up to the “promise” inherent in your teasers, above, is something that most readers deal with in their stride….they read a given piece, go hhhummpphh…and move on…but usually will come back to try another piece by that same writer. Sometimes reading can be a pleasure even when the author seems to have nothing interesting to say, but does so with a use of the language that is delicious in itself. The opposite is not often true…the most interesting thoughts/ideas, badly expressed, will drive me to the nearest good murder mystery in just a few pages.
For the author, that promise, in the midst of writing a piece, is more dangerous. Stipulate that any good writer will always be disappointed with a work, no matter how good it turns out to be, that they will always feel they have fallen short of their intention in one way or another, and you have explained why a life of writing…or any other art, for that matter, is often one of emotional discord and turmoil.
In the face of that, two attributes would seem necessary for any writer…..the ability, at some point, to be able to say “F*** it,” and move on to the next piece; and, most importantly, to be selfish enough to seize the time and space needed to write, while somehow finding a way to meet the need for your time and space claimed by those you hold dear. In a somewhat perverse way, watching you try to walk that line is part of the thrill of reading your blog.
And now i suddenly find I must end with an apology of my own. I never set out to write an essay here. It started as a few random thoughts stirred by what you wrote…but, as often the case, single thoughts can lead down many roads…and each must be explored. I have, I think, just demonstrated that writers are often their own worst editors. For that I apologize.
Lots to chew on here, and I’ll write more when I get in from visiting babies and being domestic. Lovely, though, and no apologies necessary, as I think this is the most meaty and in depth comment I’ve had…ever.
Hello, again! I have been finding more encouragement in this comment as time passes – and even the past few weeks have been a challenge in “walking the line” of selfish creative processes which really do keep me somewhat anti-social, and the will to keep doing that. Of course, there’s always something to get in the way – so each time I sit down and write, I feel as if a small war has been won. Thankfully, though, I have a partner who cheers me on, and doesn’t mind my introverted work ways. Time of life is crucial to that aspect of getting along, as he’s busy working on his own degrees of grad school hell, and so I have more time now than I may ever have again – time to myself, that is.
The promise, as you so well articulated, has gotten me into huge amounts of creative trouble in the past – as I share my ideas too early, and my projects take on a life of their own in the minds of others, and in one case, I really did have to just move on from a book I said I was writing for almost five years. That was rather painful – having people give me a dissapointed stare, or try to pep talk me into taking it up again. It’s done – that particular project has no life in it for me at the moment, and getting over the perceived failure of incompleteness has been difficult. So again, your words on the subject were quite fine (as in quality) and I’ve used them as weapons against the dreaded doldrums that taking risks can bring down on one’s head.
Thanks for cheering me on. I’ve always appreciated your support – from the very early days of conscious writing.
Nothing like a good Canadian winter to warm the imagination. I, myself, have too been somewhat hermit like since Christmas consuming paperback books like they’re going out of fashion.