This morning I sat down to work on my novel, like I do every Sunday morning. But instead of opening my draft and doing what I'd said I'd do, I pulled out my notebook and started work on a rough draft description of this novel-progress.
I wanted to feel close to the words I'd use to make it real when I spoke about this book.
Not only was it incredibly difficult to write, but it was a strangely emotional thing. I was trying to build a home for something I hadn't yet fully met. I felt like I was skipping ahead. Jumping steps.
But if I have learned anything having written and published five books before this, it's that sometimes we have to do things out of sequence just to feel the awkwardness of the act.
When I was young (we're talkin' like 7 or 8), I'd make stew. And because I cooked it so often, I understood that stewing beef became tender only after hours of cooking itself in liquid. While typing this I'm pulled into a memory of my brother buying stewing beef from the local grocery when we were young thinking he'd just throw it into his Mr. Noodles soup. I tried to tell him to pick something else. "That won't cook at the same time as the soup," I said. He told me to be quiet and mind my business! ha!
Not gonna lie, watching him gnaw away at those tough cubes of meat he'd cooked for 4 minutes is STILL something that makes me laugh today. These micro glimmers, these tiny stories keep us connected even when life tries to tear us apart.
Maybe if he'd have cooked the meat on its own, first, letting it simmer in its broth for an hour and then added in the minute noodles, his experience would have been different.
Sequencing is a thing. But the awkwardness of trying something before it's ready (or, before you're ready) can be an important part of the work. I get that now. Looking back at my brother pretending to enjoy the soup his teeth couldn't make it through, was his own experience to navigate.
While sitting at my desk this morning, the sun barely up, tiredness from the previous week's activities weighing on my heart, I also admitted to myself I just couldn't bring myself to do the drafting today. I needed to do something connected, but different.
After writing this messy draft description, I felt a clarity I have not felt in a long while. My novel was starting to feel like mine. This description is quite ... undercooked, but let me tell you, I now have something to work with, slowly. As my novel grows and evolves, so will this description.
The whole thing was emotional because honestly it doesn't matter how many books you write, each one asks something different of you. Each book makes you feel like you don't know a damn thing! Each book makes you feel like you are right back where you started, staring up at the sun, in awe completely unsure of what to do next.
But now, what I do next seems to come to me almost organically. I shared a snippet of this emotional experience as a "note" on my new Substack page. From there, I shared it with my partner and we had a very deep conversation about what it's really like to be alive today. From there, I sat down here at my small little desk, the sun, just a bit higher in the sky, and wrote this love letter to you. The unexpected bonus? The surprise? Writing this letter gave me a portal into a conversation I should probably have with my brother about something heavy I've been carrying for too long.
Imagine that.
THIS is what I mean when I say your creative life can look like an ecosystem. Everything starts to connect and inform everything else.
Let people continue to tell you that your writing is meant to be separate from the rest of your life, and I will tell you a completely different, untold story.
with love, Chelene
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What ELSE is cookin'?
Prepping: Liminal Space workshop
On the stove: Ecosystem Launchpad Program
Devouring: The Shell Game: Writers Play With Borrowed Forms, edited by Kim Adrian
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