Is there any point in hurrying?
Moving slow
This week I finally had a little time to open Scrivener and look at the words I’ve been writing for the last six years.
When I say I’ve been writing a book for six years, it sounds like it must be really deeply researched and pored over, something long and arduous and perfect. It is none of those things; I’ve been working on it in fits and starts for six years, off and on and off, typing scribbling deleting starting over. I just wanted to clarify that, because a “six year project” sets a standard I absolutely will not meet.
It has been good to get some distance from it recently, as much as it has pained me to not be writing. Consistency is the thing I want most in life and it has always eluded me, but I console myself with my consistency in coming back, returning to whatever thing or habit or practice I want to cultivate. I have longed to be the person who writes everydaynomatterwhat, but I am not her. Instead, I keep an internal monologue going and hope the story returns whenever I get back to the keyboard. Some space has been good, because I opened the Scrivener file and was surprised I still liked the words I’d written.
I fear I’ve forgotten how to write, just like I used to have dreams that I was trying to run but had suddenly become a person with six knees, bending in every direction, unable to coordinate everything into forward motion. You cannot take a day off, much less a month, The Voice says.
I haven’t forgotten, but I do need to warm up.
We have moved since I last posted. It feels like we did it the slowest way possible—load by load in our vehicles, over several weeks—and I thought that would be so convenient. We could move little by little, packing wisely and unpacking as we went. I thought it would be less stressful than shifting the whole heap of our home all at once, but I think I don’t know what I’m talking about. I think moving is hard no matter how you do it, but moving slowly may be the worst.
Moving slowly did allow us to sort through every single cupboard, closet, and container, rather than throwing everything in boxes to sort later. We have moved several times in our married life but never very far, and never with this much accumulation. We had a big moving sale and after it was over, we donated or discarded 99% of what was left over, and that feels amazing. I blame The Last Five Years for this accumulation. So much has happened in that time and when I am overwhelmed I tend to check out—apparently I checked out on managing my home.
Moving slowly might be like dragging out a surgery over an extended period of time, say days instead of hours—today we’ll prep you for surgery; tomorrow we’ll make a tiny incision and plan our next step; in a week we’ll probe around and see what we can see; another week or two and we’ll open you up a little more. Or maybe it’s like being two weeks overdue with your baby; or like breaking all the bones in your hand, but one at a time, with days in between.
I’m being dramatic but I also repent of shrugging my shoulders at every acquaintance who’s ever exhaustedly told me they’re moving, who’s ever looked to me for sympathy or understanding—Oh how fun! I can hear myself saying. I’m so sorry. I didn’t understand and I say dumb things when I don’t understand.
Writing has always come slow because I generally have a very strong filter, a pinky overused (delete delete delete), and a writer’s boulder. Not-writing begets more not-writing, until I finally push the boulder down hill and remember that it’s easier than I remember. Just do it don’t overthink it and all that pep rally stuff.
I am always thinking, always telling myself a story in my head about how and why the world works the way it does. Why do people do what they do and say what they say? Why do I think what I think?
Writing is just a pasteurized thought process. If I make too much of it, it all spoils.
All this to say: we’ve moved, my life is still somewhat boxed up or scattered around, I’m looking for a home for all the bits I’ve saved, and I’m questioning what more needs tossed (delete delete delete). I am not settled. I have no routines back in place, and I am keeping lists in too many different locations.
I think we don’t take account often enough of how much our surroundings affect us—people and things and environments. You may think you thrive in chaos. I have never ever thought that, but I hear people say it about themselves. But is that truly true? Do you thrive in chaos, or do you actually thrive in bringing order to chaos? For me, it feels like the work of my entire life has been to bring order to continual chaos, which is a vocation without end. I am slow about it, but there doesn’t seem to be any point in hurrying.
Lastly, an informal poll: junk drawer, or no junk drawer?
"Writing is just a pasteurized thought process. If I make too much of it, it all spoils." Love. Great post, Tresta.
If you designate a junk drawer, Ideally you won’t put junk in every drawer😊