1.23.23 Monday musings

To speak frankly, I’ve been wondering where to put this blog and website for many, many years. It’s preserved all over the entire enterprise. I say I want to be a writer, dabble back in it like I should, and then…nothing. I try not to beat myself up too much about this. Life has its ebbs and flows, and I know that when I am called back to writing my novels and stories the time will be right. I’ve felt exceedingly creative lately though, just not via words. In some ways it bothers me, but in others, I’m solely curious.

I’ve really fallen in love with the physical space of my home, making each room feel tactile and like my own—a story of my family. For years I’ve found reprieve in cooking and baking and serving a beautiful meal, whether to my husband, family, friends, or dropping it off at a neighbor’s. And now I’m falling in love with the work of crafting—needlepoint, knitting, block printing, you name it. It all has a little story in it that I love. There’s a gift to it, the time passed between my hands, whether in home decor, a baked treat, or a knit handkerchief. I like to imagine passing these objects—or recipes—down a generation and seeing how the story further unfolds, how it changes, how it's preserved, how it's adapted. I love it and I am the ultimate hermit because of it, surrounded by home and the wonderful simplicity of it.

And this is what caught my attention. A story is something else when it’s written down. Of course I can give it to someone, but it feels slightly different than this one singular object or meal or experience. I can write a novel by hand, and oh how I’ve been trying, but when it’s done it gets copied over and over and becomes a mass market object. Does it lose its singularity? 

I also am finding that while I can dedicate a story to someone, I struggle to stick with it because so much of what I enjoy in creating a craft, baking a dessert, or even filling my home with objects, is the connection between that physical presence of something and the people part of it. A novel or a story is strictly in my head, and it feels so selfish. It feels strange to write something simply because I think it’s a good idea. At least, lately it feels so. I can write a book that I think is good, but who is it for? I can’t seem to write it for myself. When I was younger, writing was essential to my understanding of the universe, of myself, of relationships, things, and more. I don’t know if I’d say writing is no longer essential to my core being, but I’m not the moody, confused adolescent I once was. While I like to spoil myself rotten, it can feel strange now to set aside a quiet time writing a story for myself. I much prefer to write for others, and yet I am protective of my work. It’s the most personal part of me because it’s just me. There is no pattern, recipe, or guide I’m following. It’s my creative whim and it’s vulnerable, and I think lately it’s hard to bring myself to that world when it feels so selfish. 

Some might tell me I need this time to be “selfish.” But I’m becoming old-fashioned, and I think it’d be easier to write a novel now if I knew who it was for. Perhaps this is why so many novels are in fact dedicated to someone. It’s easier to write a story for one person than even one hundred. Which leads me to my next set of questions—who is my novel for? Who would like it? And would anyone really want a novel as a Christmas present versus a nice sweater? A novel, a great story, is a gift, but so much of what makes it good is the timing of it, and to be frank often a novel comes with the chore of your own time spent on it. It feels like so much to write a novel for someone, to burden them with my work. I’m pragmatic about this, and I want to write something one person finds beautiful, but at least for my latest story I have no idea who that may be for. 

Who wants the burdensome gift of a story? I want to give the gift to someone, but I don’t want to put a tax on their time. 

I suppose all of this is to say I’m still here, and every once in a while I circle back to where I started and wonder how to start anew, as a woman entirely different than I was in 2016, where ambition, prestige, and recognition were my motivators, my muses. Who is my muse now?