Slump
January blues. February blahs. Miserable March. Spring, I’m counting on you.
I’m having a setback. It’s finally spring so I’ll put it in baseball terms: a slump. More than 15 stories on deck, all in various stages of draft. I can’t connect with my goal to write daily, let alone knock one out of the park.
I’m blaming climate change.
I heard it on the news the other night. Climate scientists say this winter — ice and freezing temperatures one week followed by rain and 16 degrees the next — marks the beginning of the new normal.
And that Mother Nature’s just going to keep upping the ante on this nightmare weather-coaster. Steeper, scarier, faster, more hairpin turns. Fact: I saw purple lightning in February, followed by torrential rain. Definitely not the old normal.
Seems my erratic writing habit is right on track.
I think about writing every day. Some days I even do it. Most days lately, I don’t. My willpower is a hubcap freed from a speeding car, headed for the long grass.
I hold my breath, full of hesitation like this weird half-winter we just had. Do I snow/write? Or will I just rain and stay inside again/not write, rather than face the icy streets?
Salvation looks like a clear blue sky on a crisp day.
It started with the time change in November. I craved sleep and only sleep. Hit snooze three times, woke up late, off-balance, dark in the darkness.
The weird thing is, I actually like this time of year. Early nights and hushed, indigo mornings are the perfect time to mine for ideas.
But December’s fresh and bright snows usually follow that darkness. Then long starry walks in January. Add skiing in February and I’m usually not sick of winter until late March. I was born to seasons. I need them to feel alright.
I’ve been thinking lately about being free and clear. No backlog. No 15 stories almost finished, in various states of done. Just one line drive on the page and out in the world, however imperfect.
Truth is a pop-fly. I see it go up, up, impossibly up. I track the arc, glove in position slightly above my face, adjusting to receive. The ball hits with a solid smack. I close my grip and pull it to my gut. Out.
I’ve been spending too much time putting other things first.
Mundane but necessary chores, shopping, housework. Crises, floods and fires too — real ones, but on a minor scale (no locusts yet). An extra half-hour here and there at work. Burying myself in a constant busy that comforts while it smothers. Saying: I can’t right now, I have to do one more thing, first. Tomorrow I’ll make time, tomorrow I’ll do it, tomorrow I’ll write.
My favourite writing coach Daphne Grey-Grant introduced me to Canadian psychologist Donald Hebb, and Hebb’s law. To paraphrase: Repeating an action forms neural circuits in our brains. We reinforce these circuits every time we perform the action until it becomes almost effortless, a groove. Neural circuits are the engines that drive our habits, both good and bad.
Which lands me squarely at the fix: do the work. Even five minutes, says Grey-Grant, or whatever smallest amount you can reliably accomplish every day. (Although she does agree on weekends off.)
All the ’10 tips’ and ‘life hacks’ in the world are not going to transform my life or my writing. Just do the damn work and quit thinking about it.
So I transcribe those audio notes. Crop that pic and stick it into the story. Grab my red pen and do a first edit. Hara hachi bu, just enough, to get to the next step, to keep moving forward, take another small step. Done, done, and purposefully done.
Not all the things, all the time.
I was relieved to read your comment, BHD, although unlike you, I can’t really blame the election and Trump, even if he does rhyme with slump. It’s true, here in Canada we’re close enough to to feel the metaphoric shockwaves and see the smoke from burning buildings. Soon enough, we’ll feel the real tidal effects of his environmental policy.
Your post made me sad for you like I’m sad for me. But happy too that I’m not alone or crazy for thinking something is different. That a little bit of hope has leaked out of the world and fear has taken up the space where it used to live. That, just right now, life feels a bit like an itchy sweater.
I hope you buy that old convent in Nova Scotia. If we’re talking about the same place, it’s called Cape Breton Island, by the way. It’s wild and beautiful. If you don’t buy the convent, at least consider a trip this summer on the Cabot Trail, the road that rings the island. I swear you’ll fall in love.
Today I woke to sunshine, crisp and cold. I put the sheets on the line and smelled spring as the earth warmed up. So good to feel the sun on my face, warm and hopeful.
I’m ready to recommit, re-boot, revive — all things positive that begin with “r.” This includes embracing real life, the losing streaks, the strike-outs, the slumps.
I stop holding my breath.
Exhale. And go.
