Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequist

I read a great little book while I was in Hawaii called Bittersweet by Shauna Niequist. I enjoyed it so much that when I got home, I ordered her earlier book, Cold Tangerines, off of Amazon. I'm a few chapters into it, and there are parts of it that have jumped out and grabbed me.

For example, she talks about how we need to be there for others, to let them know they are loved and, if necessary, to jump into the pool and help them swim to the edge when they're struggling. I like her imagery and metaphor, and I wholeheartedly agree with her premise. It rings true to me.

In the chapter I'm reading now, she talks about becoming  writer---or rather, stepping aside and letting the writer within her emerge. It has been a struggle for her, like the birth of a new being. I can relate a little bit to this latter thought. All my life I knew I loved to write, and I would make up stories to tell myself all the time. I lived in a world of imagination, and I have a passion for words. But I always somehow felt that being a "writer" was a hobby or a quirk, not a serious occupation or vocation. Serious people went to the office and put in nine-to-five hours and were responsible and earned salaries. Trying to treat writing like a valid, legitimate activity felt irresponsible and flaky. There was always a bit of guilt mixed up in it, as if something so fun was selfish or lazy. I never felt the need to see my name in print. It was the act of crafting words itself that drew me. I only started submitting things to publishers because I felt I needed to justify the time I was spending by earning some income with it.

Ten published books later, I suppose there's still a part of me that feels a bit that way. I've never taken the full-body cold plunge into writing full time. It's still something I do on the fringes, in snatched moments when there's nothing else I need to be doing, on par with weaving dish towels and dabbling in glass painting. Once I started selling my manuscripts, I got a bit caught up in the "Now I have to produce, because it's bringing in money and people expect a book a year now. I have readers." And the joy seeped out of it, a little bit. It started to feel like work, and the paycheque at the end started to grow in importance. It wasn't fun anymore. It had turned into a product, written for other people instead of myself. Plus I was writing legalese all day at work, and coming home to face the computer yet again only this time to produce fiction was becoming a real disconnect in my life. When I heard Sue Grafton had died before finishing her alphabet series (she got to Y), my first thought was, "Poor girl couldn't stand the thought of having to write one more book."

So a few months ago I had a heart-to-heart with my former editor and explained what I was feeling. She was very understanding and kind and told me to rest and then go back to letting writing be fun for me. Not to focus so much on producing as on enjoying the process. I took a few months off without writing anything more onerous than a Christmas card or occasional blog post. And now, the last little while, I have been taking little forays back into it. An occasional poem. A tiny start on a mystery. Some non-fiction just to whet the grindstone. And now the creative juices are reawakening and I can think of all kinds of things I want to write...but it still sounds like a little too much energy to actually do it.

So I will continue to be patient with myself, letting me cocoon for the rest of the winter, letting me poke my nose out from under the blanket now and then to test the air, without expecting myself to bound out of bed fully recovered. The words will wait. Like the garlic currently huddled in my garden under the snow and straw mulch, they're biding their time. I need to trust they will push out and blossom when it's time, and there's no point in trying to force them to emerge any sooner. Because I know they are there, quietly percolating. The reason I know it is because, deep down, under the fatigue, I know I'm a writer. I've known it since I was six. I need to trust that---like the swallows to Capistrano----I will return to myself when I'm ready. The words aren't going anywhere, and they won't expire or grow green fuzz if they have to wait a little longer.

Meanwhile, I'm so grateful to good writers like Shauna who are out there offering their words for me to soak up. Like a little moisture filtering down through the straw mulch, keeping my own words alive in their hibernation.