After three years of writing a book I had already tried to write three years earlier, I finally finished that book (as finished as I alone can get it), offered it up, and settled in to wait.
Waiting in the form of books read by sunrise, morning meditations, walks. Full, long, self-satisfied breaths. A clean(ish) kitchen. The garden pulled, tomatoes dried.
But waiting is hard, even if the tomatoes taste so good you consume them before you can save them, and waiting is especially hard when you realize how much of your day was consumed by that book, how much it crowded out any brain space for anything else. The mind abhors a vacuum and the space between creative projects is just that—empty. So I put my mind on search, and lo and behold, the next thing was right there waiting for me to finish waiting and notice it.
But of course it’s never that easy, and although the thing grew impatient as I hemmed and hawed over how to start it, my mind couldn’t get over the fact that it has been three years since we’ve been in this position. A large-scale project, mornings as blank as the pages, an image or two to go on but no sense of who or what or why. Like a jigsaw puzzle once all the border pieces are put together—where do I begin?
I have been here before. The start of every project, large or small, comes with this same feeling of walking through a dark corridor, groping for doorknobs, wondering what waits behind the door you’ve managed to find. I vacillate between whether or not this process is harder now than it was the first time around. The first time around, there was no light at the end of the tunnel, no way of knowing what the end would look like it when I got there, if the path I was on was the right one (or not even just the right one but not the completely wrong one.) None of it mattered because no one knew I was trying to do any of it. I had no critique group, no published stories, no friends that knew I was actively writing. I even kept it a secret from my husband. Easier that way, should I choose to throw in the towel.
But I eventually told my husband that I was writing a book, all shy and quiet like he would be alarmed by this news. I went back to the critique group I abandoned years earlier the first time I abandoned the book, slinking into the room, embarrassed for having been gone so long, long enough that only two of them even remembered who I was. I started submitting stories and poems, sharing the acceptances when they came. I made this website, started this blog, little by little identified myself until the title of writer became synonymous with the title of librarian.
And now, here I am—back in the brain space of the genesis of a long project but no longer in the genesis of my identity as a writer. Needless to say, it is difficult to rectify the two.
So how strange that just as it is time for me to start a new book, it is also time to start a new garden. And not just any new garden, a fall garden, something I have never had the opportunity to grow before.
One by one, I had pulled up my plants from the summer, too distracted to think about what should go in their place for the fall. Distracted by the queries I was submitting, the manuscripts I sent in response, stories I was proofing, the interminable waiting for anyone to answer me regarding anything. Much easier to refresh the inbox than to plant vegetables I had only eaten a handful of times before, much less seen in the ground, much less grown myself. But staring at the inbox never made an email appear, just as staring at a blank page never made words appear, just as staring at a seedless ground never made food.
So I went to the farmer’s market. Having procrastinated long enough, I found that everything was already gone, of course, with the exception of swiss chard, collards, brussel sprouts, and some kale all of which I took to plant (exception: kale, because just no.) Not to be deterred, I pulled out my seed collection, my starter pods, and the grow light, and planted everything I wanted—broccoli, carrots, spinach, beets—even if it is too late, even if it comes to nothing. It is a rebellion of sorts to plant when you know it is too late, just as it is a rebellion to start a project before you feel ready. You do it anyway, giving the finger to expected results and celebrating when you are pleasantly surprised.
I nestled these babies next to my desk, the glow of the grow light warm on my arm, same place they were when I re-wrote my book for the third time last winter. The metaphor here obvious and cliche but I swear—there is magic in growing seeds next to your desk when you are growing the seeds of a book on the page.
Every morning comes. Better now because it comes still dark, before the sun rises. I turn on the lamp, say hello to the seeds and give ourselves one halo of light in which to do our work. We are in it together, me and these seeds. I breathe like a tentative footstep and start again.