I have heard that every writer has moments of despair regardless of which phase in their writing life they find themselves. They write and believe, write and believe, and then at some unforeseen moment, the time comes to throw the laptop across the room. I am no exception.
The time came for me on a Monday like any other. My breakdown alternated between bawling and pretending to be in control, as when facing the friendly grocery checkout clerk. In those brief dry intervals, I conjured hatchling sea turtles running toward the sea, an image I call upon in times of turbulent emotion. I imagine that my problems are nothing compared to theirs, as only one out of a hundred hatchlings makes it to the ocean alive.
What prompted the episode was a series of storytelling challenges that finally collided with a decision to crash and let it all burn at 451 degrees. I quit, I said, the only two words I could utter intelligibly. I wasn’t accomplishing my only reason for writing – to inspire a love for all the creatures on our planet. Too environmental might be the simplest way to put it. Some writers are genius at showing us the intersection between nature and human nature, like Richard Powers, Charlotte McConaghy, and Lydia Millet. Some are not.
By the end of that Monday I felt in my hand the chunk I had torn from my heart, the part that’s my essence, who I am when I think about who I am. Writing this a week later still springs forth those tears, dripping into the crevices of my keyboard, rusting its innards, rendering the letters E,V,O, and L sticky and useless.
Maybe for the time being I won’t be working on the novel, but I’ll have to write in some context. A long time ago I blogged as a method of checking my sanity when I was home alone with a baby and toddler. It let me be me for a short restorative moment, and I think allowed me to be a better parent because of it.
So I’m trying it again. Some posts may occasionally be about writing, but all of them will include some aspect of nature – seeing it, saving it, allowing it to save us. Maybe someone will read, maybe not. Maybe I’ll rewrite my novel (again), maybe not. Or maybe I’ll never give up. Those baby sea turtles need us.
Annegsherwood.com 