am writing fiction

Ok, so if you read my last post, you would see I’m going for a series here. This is not planned because I’m way too unorganized for that, but I’ve been doing a lot of writing in the small spaces lately, and it’s on my mind.

And also: for those of you who are reading this and are NOT writers, this will relate to you as well because really? It has to do with what makes us creatively content.

I was going to say “what makes us happy” but I’ve been thinking a lot about that too – and I’m not sure writing makes me… happy. Don’t worry, this isn’t one of those “writing is so hard and it makes my brain feel like sludgy and sullen cottage cheese and who wants sullen cottage cheese in their life?” posts. It DOES actually do that, by the way. Like, really really troubled cottage cheese, I tell you. But that’s STILL not what I mean.

Bet you’re not gonna want to eat cottage cheese again for a while now, huh.

What I mean is… writing is hard. It’s a hard surface. You have to chip away at it. It leaves you gritty and tired and often, a bit banged up.

I have been working on a novel. The first one I have ever written. (This makes it sound like there might be more than one? Hmmm.) It’s been a delight, to write about something that’s not my life but also leans into my life (my protagonist is an alcoholic mom who is falling apart, go figure). But it’s HARD, ya’ll. Here’s some reasons why:

It’s new. I don’t know what I’m doing. I keep muttering things like “Just keep swimming.” I have taught character arcs to surly highschool teenagers for OVER TWENTY YEARS and I’m so sorry, kids. You whined about it. I get it now.
It’s waiting. I mean, there is so much waiting. I have to wait for word back on whether I should even TRY to find an agent. Waiting for that feels kind of like I am fully dilated but I have to wait a few months before I have the baby and wow that analogy just really went there.
It is sneaky. Meaning, if I don’t pay attention, this uncomfortable, hard, humbling thing could so very easily get filed away under “I just don’t have the time or heart or humility super-powers for this biznatch. I gotta feed and water kids and go to basketball games and remember to moisturize… I just don’t have time for this.”

I am still writing, ya’ll. But some days it’s hard. And if you’ve ever had something that made your heart feel at home, but it kept getting put at the bottom of the list because Momhood? I feel you. I really do.

Don’t give up.

Welcome to my brain. It’s a little weird in here, but also very kitschy. It’s a New Girl episode where they’re all a lot older and less drinkie. I’d watch it.

Also, my brain today is back in a safe place, so it’s humming with ideas.

I long for spaces that match my insides. If you are a literal person, like my 13-year-old son (aka “the lawyer”), that kind of statement is followed by an “Ew, MOM.”

But I bet some of you understand. I long for spaces that allow me to take a deep breath in, and then out, and feel all *equally pressurized.

Here are some spaces that do NOT help me to feel all equally pressurized:

The vet. More on this later, but I have had wayyyy too many visits to our local vet lately (they are wonderful and lovely and lovING, but still, no no, not my safe place).
That one place in Walmart towards the back where that guy in the red button-down is trying to sell you new cell phone service and NO MATTER how much you focus your eyes straight ahead, he still manages to sidle up and you have to do that awkward slow-walk, but you’re also still moving to show him you have places to BE in the Walmart, and no you don’t need a new cell, but also you don’t want to be mean because he’s just trying to make a living? That place.
Actually, all of Walmart, really.
Any school supplies aisle right now. Even in Target, where the cool school supplies hang out.

Places that help me to feel safe? Well, here’s one of them:

Nice product placement, Dana. Shameless plug.

You might recognize this coffee house – I was here a few weeks ago for my solo writer’s retreat. I’m back just for a few hours of writing.

It’s safe here. My insides match my outsides here.

Other safe places:

My front porch
The dinner table unless there is a casserole involved. Casseroles are my nemesis.
My back stoop, especially if Rey the Good Dog is with me (She’s a leaner. Do any of you have doggos that like to lean on you? It’s very grounding).
A church pew
Cody, Wyoming (I visited there long ago and I rode a horse named Jumper which was apt. I’m coming back, Jumper. Wait for me).
Anyplace accompanied by a good book. I’m reading The Lioness right now and it’s so gooooooood.

These types of places allow me to actively rest. Then, about four minutes later I’ll have a little burst of ideas, which I’ll have to write down (I usually end up texting myself which can be super awkward if I accidentally text Darrel, my pastor. It’s kind of hard to explain a text that says: ANXIETY BIRDS to my pastor. But you know? I’m sure he aimed for understanding. He always does. Especially with me).

Oh, and here’s another safe space: Anywhere Rey naps. Need proof?

VOILA:

I mean, honestly.

Do you have spaces that help you breathe a little easier? Create a little more? Do they help you fill up, overflow, contribute?

I think space is crucial to creativity. And notice? I used this weird term *equally pressurized. I NEVER said my space helps me feel “balanced.” That’s just a term for gymnasts and 20 year olds.

Where are your safe places?

Would you like to get some ideas to help plan your own creative retreat? Click below:

When Writing is Hard

Safe places