So one of the biggest fears I’ve had about entering the writing residency last week was actually getting any writing done. A gift of two weeks comes with a lot of expectations. If I’m going to leave my adorable husband and daughter for fourteen days, I better bring back a sizable chunk of material to prove it was worth the family’s collective sacrifice. My last writing residency was ridiculously productive (before marriage and motherhood) and instead of a point of pride, had become an unrealistic standard by which to measure this writing residency. Unfair, I realize.
It has been eight years since I attempted a first draft of a large fiction project. And the blank document page is scarily bright and intimidating. All kinds of paranoid thoughts clutter my head: What if I have nothing to say? What if I’ve forgotten how to write? What if all that comes out is terrible drivel?
So I created this little index card to get me through my daily word count:
So far, it has been very helpful. This is how I approach most of my other writing (nonfiction, oped articles, emails, blog posts, etc.) so why shouldn’t I apply it to my favorite genre? I will never oblige myself to finishing a scene or a paragraph or anything from start to finish again. My writing has always been a pastiche, patchwork-like. Instead of resisting this strategy, I must learn to embrace it.
The adjustment to long writing days and nights has taken some getting used to. The first day, I started at seven in the morning, coffee in hand, notes all over my desk. After some time typing, I felt exhausted. I looked at the clock, wondering if enough time had passed and I could raid my lunch. It was only 9:40am. Since then, I’ve become much better at pacing myself, appreciating my side trips of getting more firewood, preparing a snack or tea, or even taking a bath. The writing is still floating in my head, and I don’t have any cats or dirty laundry to trip over to get to my computer that patiently sits on the spacious, wooden desk in my cottage.
Oh, and the other fears?
That the other women writers would hate me: I’ve heard from several alumnae who admit being shunned by the potential clique-ness of the writing residency, especially when it is only comprised of six-seven strong, independent women. But since most of us arrived at the start of the residency season, we were all fresh and new. And they are all incredibly nice and supportive, and after yesterday’s brunch reading revealed, immensely talented and bad-ass. I’ll probably write a longer blog post about this later, how both refreshing and unsettling it is to be immersed in such a supportive environment of women. It is very hard to be cynical about it.
That the isolation would drive me batty: Honestly, there have been a few moments during my first week where I suddenly craved conversation, any conversation, and I knew that I had many hours until the next communal dinner. I’ve obsessively tended my wood-burning stove and even looked for wildlife outside my windows to keep me company. Apparently there used to be an owl that sat in a tree outside my cottage’s window and whose stares would freak out the previous residents. Alas, he or she is not here. The best I have is a mundane gray squirrel, and I see plenty of those in Berkeley. This morning, I ventured on my first mini-walk (I can’t walk far this deep into the pregnancy—for fear of Braxton Hicks attack), and feeling the cold air in my lungs was revitalizing.
That I wouldn’t like the food: Hedgebrook is famous for their organic, vegetarian-friendly fare, and my pregnancy has been craving carbs, carbs, carbs. My belly laughs at rabbit food. But so far, most of the food has been delicious and filling. And I have created a dynamite breakfast combination of French press coffee, hard boiled eggs and cream-cheese smeared toast. Also, I believe the chef knew I was coming and what I was craving because we’ve had two Vietnamese dishes here already!