Listening & Writing

a new season is finally here

It’s nearing the end of March, and the rain is pouring from the sky. Here in Northern California, I know this means this is likely one of the last rains we will get until October, at the earliest. The pattering becomes a rushing that I can hear as water moves over the house, enveloping it in a thrumming chorus. I listen to it coursing through the gutters and smacking on the walkway leading up to the house. I’m grateful I didn’t plant out those tomatoes last weekend when I was so tempted in an early wave of spring warmth. I settle back in with my cup of Earl Grey and gulp it down before it chills. The rain is steady, and I close my eyes to better hear it. I am here for as long as it lasts.

rain drops caught in a spiderweb, strung on a blueberry bush, in the yard

These beginning-of-spring rains mark the end of a season of waiting and listening. A season of discernment. I am not the same person I was when winter began. I have changed; I have shifted. My desires have sharpened and my purpose is clearer.

When I was a little girl, all I ever wanted to be was a writer. I filled homemade books with poetry, advice, stories, and little drawings made up of words. When it came time for college, I took some unfortunate advice to major in anything but writing, because all liberal arts majors would involve a good deal of writing. Why study just writing when I could study history or politics or — gasp — religion? Since I could already write a great essay the night before it was due, I didn’t wind up advancing my writing skills at all in college. I primarily learned two things in my time there: 1) you don’t need to be enrolled in an institution of higher education in order to study and learn at a high academic level, and 2) going into a great deal of debt for an unfinished degree in Theology is not the easiest path to prosperity in a capitalist society.

Once I left college, I needed to make a living. I wound up writing anything people would pay me for, which means my resume flits among gigs in marketing, advertising, public relations, copywriting, editing, proofreading, even ghost writing. I can authentically write in the voice of a wholesale seafood monger. I can write florid wine descriptions that will make you shell out hundreds of dollars for a single bottle. I can convince you that you absolutely have to attend this latest restaurant opening, even though you have just attended half a dozen other restaurant openings just like it.

It wasn’t until after the birth of my children, and after a global pandemic had simultaneously changed so much and so little, that I turned to writing for myself again. Writing what I wanted, even though no one was paying me for it. I chose to narrate my essays as a voiceover in long-form YouTube videos I created, knowing that video is the format that has seduced the masses. It is only after my small success there that I felt brave enough to let my words stand on their own, here on Substack. I have absolutely needed the discipline of a (mostly) weekly newsletter to keep me focused and motivated.

And now? As my endless kitchen renovation nears a more livable stage, I am eager to get back into video creation. I am also dreaming of what else I can commit to offer to this audience here on Substack. I have recommenced my morning pages (Julia Cameron might blanch at anything less than three pages, but I only require two from myself. Life with small children makes two a tidy and good-enough container for my swirly thoughts, and will still leave enough time and creativity for my work.)

AND. And.

I decided it was time to recommit to my own creative work. I am midway through The Bones of Storytelling,

Jennifer Lauck

’s introductory writing course over at Blackbird Studio. Her Substack, Flight School, is rich with knowledge and literary lessons. She is a gifted teacher, and I am thrilled to be deepening my skills under her tutelage.

a moment at the kitchen table, roses from the garden

I am eyeing low-residency MFA programs, including one at the college I had always dreamed of attending as a girl. I am researching upcoming book festivals (excited to hear Tommy Orange in Berkeley this summer!) and making friends with literary fiction and the surrounding community again.

And I am writing. Twenty years ago, I had a flash of an idea for a novel. A pair of twin images, inspired by historical events. The idea thumped in my chest at the oddest of times, beating out a rhythm that was too sporadic and spread out to make sense of. I took notes over these decades, attempting to grasp what wanted to come forth. As the years ticked by, I despaired at the thought that I might never be able to fully translate it, that I would never possess the skills to birth a story that spans 600 years and two continents.

In this winter of great listening, I came to understand that the art of writing literary fiction is a skill that can be developed. It is, in fact, a bundle of skills that I am developing right now. I am studying, writing, studying writing, and reading. So much reading. I have consumed little fiction since my children were born, which I think was my brain’s way of protecting me from the shame of not having written the novel yet. I’ve spent my time with great non-fiction and short-form works, but novels have been scarce around here.

This has been a season of shifting, of deep uncertainty and fear. I find solace in literature, but I also find hope. I hope that I finally have the courage to bring forth the work that has been building within me, the work that has the erratic yet persistent quality of early spring rain.

I’ve finished my tea, and the sun has begun to peek through the waning rain clouds. It stretches across the front yard and reaches the sliver of window where I sit. I feel it on my face, and I know it is time to stop, for now. Though the demands of the day are just beginning, I know I will return to my work. For the first time since I was a little girl, I am writing again. Writing for me.

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