August 31, 2017
September 1st in 2014 was the Monday of Labor Day weekend. I'd had a difficult summer, including as a writer. On May 31st, I graduated with my MFA and returned home the next day from my final residency. The four years of study and writing and deadlines came to an abrupt halt, and I wanted to get started right away on writing projects and reading. But I hit a brick wall. That was okay; I'd been warned this might happen and some friends even suggested that I take a break. One day led into the next, but around the middle of June, the cobwebs in my mind seemed to be clearing. I started to write again, taking tiny steps. It had been a long two weeks, but I was back. Little did I know...
On July 1st, I wrote, thinking it was the first of many writing days that month. On July 2nd, I went to my eye doctor thinking he'd tell me I needed cataract surgery but instead I received devastating new: I had glaucoma. I remember going to the gym where my dad used to swim and my mom walked, and with her I strolled that indoor track. My eyes were still recovering from being dilated, connections in my brain weren't firing right, and I was terrified. I was entering new territory with eye drops and pressure checks and insurance nightmares. A couple of weeks later, I received news about a tragic and unexpected death in the family, one that still haunts. And then I chipped a tooth, which didn't seem like a big deal, but there was a stress fracture, too, and it's been sensitive ever since.
That month, I didn't write another word after the diagnosis. Instead, I unloaded a six-shelf bookcase containing binders and folders from my writing before and during the MFA program, and I gathered other filing related to writing. My kitchen island, counter tops, and even a small folding table were covered with stack upon stack. During most days the rest of that month, I worked on clearing clutter from the files and organizing. I filled my recycling containers as I tried to keep the grief and fear at bay. By the end of July, I'd reloaded the bookcase and hoped to start writing.
I was returning to teaching in about three weeks, though, and had two sessions of a new course. I'd never created my own syllabus from scratch, so I picked up the text and worked on developing the class. My mind didn't have enough bandwidth to work on the syllabus and to write, especially given how long since I'd written anything in earnest. At some point that month, however, maybe after posting the syllabus, I wrote. One day. That's all. After classes started, the structure helped. I had no classes on the Friday of Labor Day weekend and planned to write. I didn't. I planned to write on Saturday and Sunday. I didn't. Something had to give. I hadn't spent all that money and time to not write. Besides, I love writing, and I wanted the joy of it. But I wasn't writing.
On September 1st, I set a goal: I'd write every day for the next 30 days. Yes, I had a course that was new to me and 40+ students to teach. Yes, the classes met four days a week. Yes, there would be stress for that first month. But I had to write. I'm a writer. It felt like part of me had gone missing, like a phantom limb ached. Still, was I biting off too much? I didn't want to set myself up for failure. I believe keeping a promise to one's self is as important as keeping a promise to others. I needed to tweak my plan of writing each day for 30 days and so added a minimum to my goal: I'd write at least one new paragraph or edit at least one page each day. I could do more, but if that was all I had the time or energy to do, it would be enough. I'd have kept my promise.
And so I wrote. On September 9th, I stared a new piece. I didn't know what it was, but writing it was fun. Writing itself was fun again.
I decided to extend the 30 days to 60. And then to 90. And then, why not push to the end of the calendar year? Then maybe six months. When I got close to a full year, I decided to go for it. And then another year. And a third.
I wrote regardless the weather, regardless the distractions, regardless starting a full-time job in March 2015 and continuing to teach part-time. I wrote more than 900 pages for the new work--and even rewrote some--by the end of that first November. I returned to my novel, and I tore the structure apart and put it back together. I edited it again and again and...I've lost track of how many times, but I now need to query for an agent to represent it. I revived a short story I'd started, sent it out, rewrote it, sent it out, worked on the structure, sent it out, and now I've made changes again and finished today. Over this Labor Day weekend, I will submit the short story and send out query letters for the novel. This is fitting as today marks the end of the third year of writing every day.
Last year at this time, I told myself I would go for this third year but other things would count, such as reading about craft in a book or a magazine, reading for and responding to my writing group, or blogging. Though I did those things, I still wrote daily. And another year passed. Do I continue? I will return to the novel I've worked on some over the last few months, an adaption of a screenplay I wrote pre-MFA, and see what happens.
In practice, over these three years my goal of writing a new paragraph or editing one page daily has never changed. I also don't think there has been one day in the 1,096 days of writing when I did only that minimum. That is part of the key to this success, I think. The minimum gets my butt in the seat every day, even when I tell myself I'm too tired, even when I tell myself I'm too busy, even when I tell myself I'll write tomorrow. Once I sit down with my computer or pages I've printed, the characters talk, the plot develops, and the words flow. That wouldn't happen if I didn't show up.
I've heard it said that for a writer it's more painful to not write than to write. The three months of June, July, and August 2014 were painful for the writer in me, but they led to these three years of work and joy.
My definition of a writer is someone who writes. I am a writer, and I write.
