We’ve had lots of stormy weather in the last few weeks. My sleep has been interrupted with flashes of lightening, cracking thunder, and rain slapping against the windows. The days have been heavy, the air dense and oppressive.
Is it the weather that puts me into a funk? Or all the freelance work I’ve been juggling? Or the problem with my hip and IT band that’s keeping me from running? All of above? Not running definitely affects my moods; I’m less patient and less productive.
D has been home with the girls for a couple of weeks now, so technically I should have plenty of work time, but we’re still muddling through our new schedules and roles. (Me going off to work at the coffee shop every morning while he plans what activities he and the girls will take on: zoo, children’s museum, bike ride to a local lake or park.) Maybe my funk is due in part to the fact that I’ve been feeling a little lonely for my girls and my role as their primary care giver. (Daddy is now the one who is requested more often for bedtime reading, and, well, just about everything else: “I want Daddy to change my diaper!” “No, Daddy wash my hands!” “Daddy do it!”)
But I’m ready to shake off the funk. I’ve caught up on my freelance work and I have the coming week off from teaching. So I’m ready to dive back into the revision of my memoir. (How many times have you heard me say that over the last year and a half? Too many, I’m sure.) But this time I’m serious. I have about 100 pages of the rewrite left, and I need to finish it by mid-August.
This means twenty pages a week. Four pages a day if I write five days a week. That’s a lot for me, but I think I can pull it off. Especially since I already wrote the book once (or twice or three times)?
I remember that the last time I met with my lovely MFA thesis advisor before I graduated she said that by the time I was finished with my memoir, really finished with it (and at the time I had no idea how long this process would take), I would be so sick of it that I’d want to throw the manuscript across the room. I’m actually not sick of the material yet (or at least I’m not sick of it right now, probably because I’m doing so much new writing in this draft that the material still feels fresh.) I am, however, sick of “working on the memoir,” the same memoir I’ve been working on for six years.
I’m ready to move on to the next project, which might be another memoir or might turn out to be a novel. I’m ready to have that buzzing excitement, those months of playing with words and wondering where the story will lead me, what the real story is.
But in order to get to that place, I need to sit down at my computer day after day and finish what’s on my plate. And I’m ready. I hope.