Fallow

In the fifteen months before Ask Cassandra was published last week, I wrote a novelette, a novella, and four novels. My best estimate is that is somewhere in the region of 385 000 publishable words, plus many thousands that were unpublishable and ruthlessly sliced from various manuscripts accordingly.

While considerably less stressful than full-time English teaching, this was still a fair amount of work.

It would be very romantic to say that I loved every minute of it, but the truth is, I didn't. I loved most of it, but I stressed over money and deadlines and beat my head against the amount of marketing I could be doing versus the undeniable limitations of the 24 hour day. I damaged my wrists to the point where the pain made it hard to sleep. I fixed the money problem (huzzah for day job!) and the wrists problem (huzzah for yoga and timers!) but the deadlines remained.

I was done with Ask Cassandra by June 1st. My next deadline was set for December 2nd.

"You need a holiday," I told myself firmly. "Don't write. Do anything but write."

Over the last ten days, I have finished sewing a dress. I made a pinafore and two long-sleeved T-shirts from start to finish, and listened to the entire Trinyvale campaign of Not Another D&D Podcast.

I started an Ursula Le Guin kick, reading (or re-reading) The Left Hand of Darkness, Rocannon's World, Planet of Exile, City of Illusions and The Telling. Yesterday afternoon I lay on my bed and read The Lathe of Heaven, then jumped into Libby and started Dorothy L Sayers's Unnatural Death.

I tried two new-to-me dishes, both delicious: a tofu ragu and an unnamed caramelised onion and lentil thing I made up as I went. I baked brownies and carrot-hazelnut muffins. I ironed shirts and folded laundry and scrubbed my sink. I thought about mopping my kitchen floor, and then didn't.

I helped escort students to the University of Canterbury for their open day. I ran a speaking workshop for Speak Up For the Planet. I introduced my creative writing students to Frank O'Hara, Mary Oliver, Danez Smith, and Emily Dickinson. I taught employment skills and presented on subject selection.

I attended an excellent worldbuilding workshop by Gillian St Kevern. I made ads for Instagram, and tentatively stepped into the world of Amazon ads. I let my brain generate story notes and research ideas, and I added them to my phone's list app: "Tattoo magic? Based on rare ore?" "She's allergic to horses!" "Breathing together exercise?" "Ask Emma about wedding photography."

But I didn't write.

I have never run out of ideas, but I have often exhausted my will to exploit them. My creative self needed a fallow period. Nothing shows on the surface; the field looks barren. Underneath, the soil is quietly replenishing itself, finding nourishment and strength in rest.

On Saturday I wrote the first line of my new draft: "The guards came for me just as I was contemplating drowning myself in the slop bucket."

I don't know if that line will stay. It's a little complicated (two -ing verbs in a row), too non-specific (which guards, where), and even if it makes me grin, starting with the slop bucket is potentially too gross for a new reader.

But it feels good to begin again, stretching into fresh air after sorely needed sleep.