Writing, again, and, again, and again.
A few months back, I wrote a short piece that was part accountability and part declaration about how I would be spending my summer writing. I’ve had several articles in various stages that I hoped to complete, and I’d planned on finishing a full rough draft of my book manuscript over my sabbatical year. The thing about me and writing is that I am a pretty good planner. It took me years, but I finally found a way to map writing projects in a way that works for me. I don’t say this to be boastful; please trust that this came after years of struggling with never knowing how long to allot myself for particular writing tasks, punishing myself for being a “slow” writer, and then scolding myself for those times when I simply could not write.
What changed is that I had to drop the belief that any one mentor, system, planner, or workshop was going to be able to help me write, given my particular set of circumstances. I’ve tried many things over the years (except for following the advice of some and getting up to write at 5:00 AM, I just don’t have it in me). While I can say that I sometimes picked up useful tips, nothing ever felt like anything was a good fit for my circumstances. Those circumstances are that I’ve been caring for both elderly parents and kids since my first job out of graduate school.
My situation is not unique. There are countless articles written about “the sandwich generation,” those of us simultaneously caring for our parents and kids. And while I know I’m not alone, as countless reports and research demonstrate that others feel just as overwhelmed and stressed due to these multiple caregiving roles, I’ve still spent much of my time as a writer feeling very alone because of it. I don’t always publish as much as others, and sometimes had to say no to writing retreats and research trips that required travel. I often told myself I wasn’t giving it my all, because my all didn’t seemingly match the paths of others. (While not the focus of this post, this is something I want to continue to examine and perhaps even write about because I believe some of my isolation came both from stories I created about what it meant to be a “successful” writer and professor as well as stories we are told about what being “successful” should look like.)
I began my first tenure track position in the fall of 2013 at a large state school in the midwest. When I started, one of the first things I was told by mentors was that I needed to write a lot. I tried my best to adhere to that, writing when I could find time between prepping new courses, service work, adapting to a new city, and being a mom to two young kids. I did write, but it didn’t feel like a lot, and I felt guilty. Five months into my position, my mother (who lived in Virginia) was diagnosed with ALS. Suddenly, my writing and research needed to be put on pause as I began to research as much as possible about this horrific disease. Most of my writing that term was in the form of emails to doctors trying to get my mom into ALS clinics, requesting records, tests, and researching medical trials.
By the time summer rolled around, we had my mom in a clinic we liked, and I was happy to be able to move my family temporarily for the summer so we could spend time with her in Virginia. That summer, I tried to pick up my writing again, it was hard, but it also became a distraction for me. I wrote during long car rides when my brother and I drove her to her doctor’s appointments, I wrote during day-long clinic visits, and I wrote while she napped on the sofa. I can’t say this was always the best approach. Yes, I did get writing done, but I often go back and read those words in my book or from an article, and I’m haunted by memories of where I was writing or what was happening during that time.
I know I was doing my best, but sometimes I wonder why I didn’t just put the computer or draft down. I try not to punish my past self too much; I know I was both responding to the needs of my work, and trying to carve out a space for myself with writing. A space where for a few minutes, I was tasked with chasing down a citation, or an archival record, revising a paragraph, playing with language and not the reality we were facing. There was respite through writing, but there was also guilt.
My mom would live for just over five years with ALS. She was diagnosed in January of 2014 and passed two days after her birthday on November 10, 2019. During that time, I published one book (and am so grateful she was able to actually witness it because she was the inspiration for my writing it) and a handful of articles. All of my writing from that time of intense caregiving and grief is hard for me to look at. I can trace much of what I wrote to some moment with my mom’s illness. After she died, I swore I would not write another book.
But, honestly, I love writing. I love putting words on paper. I love reading and being inspired by others. I love the process of revision because that’s when I feel like I really get to see what’s possible. I love that writing makes me feel connected to others. So while I thought I wouldn’t write another book again, when I changed my mind and could finally imagine the possibilities for a second book, I had to do a lot of work to prepare myself for what it might look like this time around because I knew that the process would bring up lots of grief. I’ve been working on my second manuscript off and on for over a year. While this book is much different from what I’ve written before, the process of drafting has brought back memories and this has made the process challenging.
This summer, I found myself back in the role of caregiver once more, and of course, it hasn’t been easy. I had lots of good intentions at the start of the summer for all the work I would complete. Some of it I did, but there have been more than a few instances where I’ve had to slow down because either the demands of the caregiving situations have been greater than I expected, or my own sadness and grief have been greater than I expected. But I’m still writing, and learning with the help of a very supportive community, to soften my expectations for myself. So yes, those book plans I drafted, and the list of articles I want to pitch (and oh my gosh, pitching is not for the faint of heart!) sit on my desk, complete with a color-coded checklist of writing tasks and a planner. I’m making my way through the list; matching tasks for days where I have the appropriate time and energy has been a game-changer for me. Rather than plow through lists without reflecting on how I’m feeling or what capacity I have to show up for the writing that day, I try to plan tasks around my time as thoughtfully as possible. This doesn’t always go as planned; some days are just unpredictable, and I have to remind myself that I cannot plan and control everything. When I lose my way or focus, I try to gently call myself back, again, and again, and again.
I guess this post is once more part accountability: Yes, I am writing! But I suspect it's also to remind myself of the complexities: Writing is not easy. I am still healing and grieving. I am learning what caregiving means in this current situation and trying to understand how to navigate the roles I have. It's also okay to feel joy about the project even in the midst of so much chaos. (That last one I have to remind myself of daily). Finally, I think this post may also be an opportunity to seek community and remind myself that I am not alone. I will continue to call myself back to writing and to the realization that my writing is both something for me and something that I hope I can offer to others.
