The Big Break: 6 Months Off from Writing

I’m taking a break from working on long form fiction (novels) for a little bit. For the whole next six months. The long and short of it is that I just finished a long, engrossing project and I’m a little burned out. This six months off will allow my current project to ‘breathe” so to speak. Hopefully when I go back to it for a super, final, absolute last read, I’ll have fresh eyes.


I’ve been working on one long form project or another – some failed, some successful, for awhile now. Something close to fifteen years, if it’s possible to believe that. Nights, weekends, holidays, any spare time from my full-time job and parenting, all the time. Even when I wasn’t writing – say after the birth of my children – I felt guilty about not writing. The projects were never far from my mind. I wake up early. I stay up late to finish them.

I only work on one project at a time. This is what drives me to finish a project. Somewhere around the end of the second draft and the beginning of the third, I always start to hate a novel. Loathe it. Doubt its very purpose. That’s when the temptation is high to start another project. When I was young, I learned my lesson - work from beginning to end, first to third draft, no distractions, or it won’t get done.

Right about the time I start to loathe a project, I fall in love with the next project. If only I could finish the old project, the bright new, hot project and I could be together! The closer I get to finished, the more eager I am to start something new. As a result, there haven’t been more than a few days breaks between projects for the last few years.

So I’m trying something really new to me here, by trying to force a rest between projects. Force is the right word. It turns out, however, that thinking about taking a break – planning for it – is worse than the actual break. I’m two weeks in now. For almost a full month before the break, I wavered, I panicked. I compromised, suggesting I could still do some outlining. The last day, I woke up at 5 am to squeeze in a few more pages and found my heart was racing painfully – already pounding as I was waking up from a sudden, deep sleep. For weeks before the break I would debate with myself over its merits during my long commute to work. I remember muttering to myself (yes, I talk aloud in the car alone) that planning for this felt something like being forced to schedule my own lobotomy.

But the time to stop was helped by external events. I had planned for a week of rough camping with my family. No internet, no computers, no novel. I shelved the project and started packing almost without having the time to think too deeply about it. Packing up the kids, getting everything in the car, giving the house a brief clean before departure – this didn’t give me a lot of time to think that I was starting the big break – as I’ve come to think of it.

One of my goals for a week of camping was to teach my oldest son how to ride a bike. I was counting on the calm country roads at the campground to give us room to learn. A few days in, it wasn’t going so well. My son, who is so good at so many things – breathlessly good sometimes – was having a hard time learning to ride. He was embarrassed and sad. “Mom,” he said at last, “I think I’m wasting your time.”

No, I reassured him, he wasn’t. I was on the big break. The only goal I had for the whole week, I told him, was to get him up and riding. We could try a hundred times if he needed. I had the time. He smiled, calmed, reassured. I loved his smile. Isn’t the ability to reassure your children, one of a mother’s best talents? I’m as proud of that as anything else, including my work as a lawyer or my ability to lay down clear sentences on a page.

Whether I was on the big break or not, I would have told him the same thing, of course. What was amazing to me – to my internal thoughts that my children never see or guess - was how sincerely I meant it. I had all the time in the world, only this one task. I felt free. Almost elated, honestly. After all my wavering and worries, it appeared the big break had begun.

Letter to My Love . . .

Dear Writing:


I think I need a little space. You see we’ve been together since I was very young. At least since I was eighteen I’ve been working continuously on a novel – nights, weekends – I even take you with me on vacation. And here’s the thing – you’re all I think about and maybe it’s a little unhealthy. You know, obsessive.

Even when I’m not writing, I think that I should be writing. Then, I feel guilty. It’s a special poignant guilt that I save just for our creative relationship.

So I need six months to think about some things. You know, figure myself out. Try some new things that don’t involve you. Who knows? Maybe I like to paint. Maybe I’ll cook more and redecorate the house. Then, of course, there’s always my kids and my full time job. I could work on that too.

I realize we just finished a huge project together. Two years on my last novel. Wow. And you were super patient and great with me the whole time. But that doesn’t change things. In fact, maybe that’s the reason why I need this break. Just six months, before we charge into that next project we’ve been talking about.

I hope you understand. It’s not you. Of course you don’t need this break. It’s me.

Love,

Rachel

A Quiet (Kid-Friendly) House: Longing

This morning I was making summer holiday breakfast for my kids – eggs, bacon, and homemade strawberry jam on toast. Not a hard or long task, but one that requires me to flip the bacon on time and not burn the eggs. My oldest wandered into the kitchen and wanted to tell me about his latest invention – at length, trailing me devotedly, bumping up against me in our small kitchen with each turn.

My heart sank, it’s impossible to explain to kids that for maybe a half hour, I wanted to cook in peace with a little quiet. The bacon starts to burn and I ask him to give me a minute. He looks hurt. Guiltily, I call him back into the kitchen and put him in charge of the toast. He talks, engrossed is his story while he works. By the time the rest of the food is done, we only have two pieces of toast for five people.

Later that day, my youngest is following me while I need to dress for a graduation party. He’s curious about my make-up and why I put it on, he wants to see my teeth, can he hold the soap? Mix the toothpaste with my face cream? He trails me down the hallway, and asks “why are you going into the closet?” I stare at him in frustration – more with myself than anything – I have forgotten why I needed the closet. I remember ten minutes later that I had wanted to wear a necklace. By then I am already in the car and on the way to the party.

The day reminds me of a recent conversation I had with a colleague. Her husband is a talker too, she confesses. Between him and the kids, she never has a moment of quiet at home. Her office is a type of refuge of silence. At home, she plays classical music to drown the others out while she tries to remember what she was cooking for dinner.

I’m not looking for silence for the sake of silence itself. I don’t want to live in a monastery or a museum. It’s what the silence allows me to do that I crave. Quiet allows me to think coherent thoughts that I can stack on top of one another to form plans, turn into art, plan a meal or even read a book. I long for a quiet house.

It doesn’t work to simply ask the kids to be silent. They look hurt, wounded. I draw a scarlet “T” for “terrible mom” on my chest when they pull those sad faces. Nor do I simply want to turn on the tv and park them for an hour. I’m looking for ideas for a happy, loving, kid-friendly, engaged house – that is on occasion – a quiet house. Any thoughts?