It’s here. It’s finally here. This period of time I’ve talked about wanting forever. A stretch of a few months to devote to creativity. To writing. To storytelling. To trying to put enough words on paper that people might actually not hate.
I’m under no illusions I’m writing the “great Canadian novel”. My ideas are lighter. Fluffier. They probably fall in the “beach read” category. I’m okay with that. They say to write what you know, and I haven’t lived a life full of spies, intergalactic travel or time machines.
They also say the first draft of any book is garbage. It takes a lot of polishing to make a diamond shine. Truth be told, I already have a few tens of thousands of words on paper already, which I printed before I left the office on my final day. (Despite pandemic restrictions, we’ve been allowed to occasionally work from the office). The words started pouring out of my head a few months ago usually at the ungodly hour of 2:00 a.m. At first, I tried to ignore it. When that didn’t work, I thought scribbling down a few notes would help get the thought out of my head and let sleep fill it instead. Eventually, I gave up and started taking my laptop to bed with me so I could write for an hour or two when the thoughts came. Needless to say, I started Sabbatical 2.0 with a serious sleep deficit!
Two weeks ago, I powered down my work laptop and my work phone. Although some of my colleagues didn’t believe I would do it, I left them in the office, along with a note on my door about where I was and when I’d be back. It had been a strange day. In another time, the day would have been full of in-person goodbyes and a nice long lunch, and probably not much work. Instead, the two people who were in the office near mine left before I did and when I finally finished my work, me and my empty briefcase sauntered out alone.
Because I’d been working predominantly from home, I knew I’d need a change of scenery to help with the transition, so I spent five days in a tiny cottage in Eastern Ontario. Unfortunately, the days coincided with what amounted to a heat wave, so skating on the lake on my doorstep wasn’t an option. But it was warm enough to sit outside in the sunshine and read, which was a nice treat after the winter.
I took the pages I had printed with me and started ruthlessly editing them. Writing in a new or better word here and there, and crossing out whole paragraphs that didn’t do anything to move the story along, no matter how well written they were. By the end of five days, I had fewer words than I started with, and I’m still toying with ripping out a subplot.
Returning home, I realized I felt lighter. There wasn’t a crisis that needed dealing with. There was no pressing deadline. No running from meeting to meeting. In the week that’s passed since then, it’s been a bit crazy at home. A small reno project that was delayed when we went to lockdown in January finally started and in just over another week, I’ll have a small space I can dedicate to my desk, and some significantly improved lighting. Of course the reno has experienced a bit of scope creep, and as new carpet was going to be needed for the space, it just makes sense to rip out the old grotty carpet from all the upstairs bedrooms and live the upheaval only once.
So amidst the hammering, sawing and wire pulling, I’ve been implementing the hard copy edits and adjusting to a new normal for the next six months. I’m trying to re-establish my yoga practise and walk more. I’ve tackled a couple of the household jobs that I never had time to get to and I’ve planning scheduling hikes (and soon patio lunches!) with friends I don’t see enough of.
And yes, I’m scheduling in writing hours. During daylight hours.
