The winter is decidedly here, and I find myself in agreement with Katherine May who wrote the beautiful book Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times:

Life meanders like a path through the woods. We have seasons when we flourish and seasons when the leaves fall from us, revealing our bare bones. Given time, they grow again.

This morning I finished out a nine-month commitment to write on deadlines as a group. I’d love to say I had the same writerly routine every week, but I did not. How I make money can make days wildly unpredictable, I like to take advantage of good weather and go outside, and I follow whims of my painting interest too much to keep a writing schedule. Those folks who can commit to a writing schedule each day everyday truly amaze me, but like Bob Dylan says, “That ain’t me, babe.”

I have, however, restarted a habit of regular weekly writing that was on pause for a few years. The pandemic, menopause, and losing my beloved Elroy knocked me off the path for a bit. A few months ago, I mentally committed to ending the battle of trying to pull all of the stories together into a book, and one of lovely writerly folks whom I trust as an editor, told me not to, and that I do indeed have a story. If she was not one of the best editors I’ve worked with, I would have ended all the work to make a book.

On this day as I write here, I am more certain that I can see the end now more than ever. That feels pretty astonishing and worth reflecting on as the winter winds howl towards a new year.

I’ve done all the outlining, scaffolding, arc-building, and note-taking on the structure of the book, and I feel like it is a story worth reading. As I have been working on this project, I’ve spent the autumn going through old photos of my life before this book began. A digital camera came into my life around the time of this book’s conclusion so the printed visual record ends about the time my recent life begins. Very fascinating, really. This season of revision has also led to a culling of my belongings, art work, craft supplies, and old writings.

I donated some of my stash of crafty things to a local organization, and when the volunteer opened the bag of my stuff, she gasped with glee and shrieked. As I looked around the local shop devoted to saving textiles from the landfill, I heard a few of the volunteers ooohing and aaahing over the things I had donated. Things that had taken up real estate in my closet that I no longer wanted were making other folks excited. Things I thought I might use someday but never did. Things I decided to let go. I overheard one of the employees sighing with awe as she held paint brushes I really did not like. I only used them once and then never picked them again. The revision of Things, rather than Experiences or Thoughts, is so much easier to see in transition. Words are so much harder trace in the revision process. Stories are so much more difficult to feel complete. Donated to others. Gone from our thoughts.

A revision of Things leads to a tidier closet and space in my home office. Getting rid of Things, I can now see space that I may covert to a studio space if I choose to in the new year. Revising physical spaces by removing Things makes it so easy to see the fruits of your labor.

Somehow the revision process of words feels less like an accomplishment. Visible expressions of more space or a change in atmosphere is harder to find between drafts of creative work. Invisible labor that nobody but myself probes me to complete.

But here we are at the end of the year, and it seems like a good time to list out what I have accomplished in the last nine months. Before I head out to walk in the woods with my dog and my mister. Before I stop myself from quantifying the record of my days.

I revised 35,650 words of a story I started writing 20 years ago.

I wrote 18,619 new words of this same story during the year.

I have 52, 452 words that equal 12 chapters. One of which I know for sure is the first chapter, and one chapter of which I love so much I cannot believe I wrote it when I reread it recently.

I went some place cool each month of this year where I worked on this book in some way. I hiked and traveled with this story in mind while going someplace new. Or I returned to a beloved spot where I know I work well. My backpacking season was extraordinary. A bit of a record set for this year that I will carry into the new year.

I wrote or revised 28 Saturday mornings. Some were better than others because I got distracted by riding my bicycle or backpacking. In other words, I had 28 incredible Saturday mornings.

I attended or listened to recordings of 10 writing classes.

I participated in 17 writing groups and 9 meetings. Six of which I did from my van using hotspot wifi and electricity to charge my devices from state parks. One state park wifi experience did not work so well, but I loved trying. 

I attended three writing seminar weekends. Two of which I hiked during the lunch break in an urban forest I quite love while thinking about my story. I was very aware that everyone else had lunch with other people and I was the weird-o showing up sweaty kinda muddy after walking alone. I no longer force myself to network when I do not feel like it.

I wrote one poem that was rejected, but I loved writing it. I submitted one essay that has been accepted for a 2024 anthology. I submitted a painting to a fundraiser and my cheeky friend bought it, but for a minute, I thought I had sold a painting. I did an embroidery project each month and painted almost every day, and none of these other creative pursuits distracted me from the writing. A walking talking miracle.

I’ve decided to create a few composite characters so I don’t have to worry about getting other people’s stories wrong in my book. Completely liberating. I’ve turned most of the chapters into something more humorous than introspective and serious. At least one character has a story she should tell herself, and the others are friendships I no longer maintain, but are nonetheless part of the topography of my life. The composite characters and loosening of the truth has helped me rediscover the fiction writer I was before academia and the adjunct years.

I’ve also let go of the idea that I need some sort of dramatic turning point or major sadness to pull the stories together. In the grand scheme of life, the days have been pretty good to me. Life is now so unpredictable and so unstable for us all that I want to focus on the fun side of telling a humorous story. Should shit get worse before I finish this book, trust me, I’ll fire up my sad macabre inner kill-joy. She’s always ready to party. She not only questions why the glass is half full and who was exploited to get it that way, and she also knows she does not own the glass. She also tortures a metaphor to death if you give her a chance.

I’ve revised two formerly published pieces and changed the direction completely which was not as hard as I originally thought it would be. It’s been such an interesting unravelling of who I was ten years ago versus who I am today. A decade ago, I was more likely to encourage others to like what I like to do, and now, if I’m going to be honest, I do not want to anyone new doing the things I like to do. You do you. This is no longer an encouraging story to motivate you to try backpacking or hiking. I’ve been delighted–utterly delighted–to hear people say “You make this sound so easy and interesting that while I am reading, I think sure, yeah, I totally want to do this. And then I realized I never like to be far away from my shower, and I really don’t like walking up hills, but I loved this story.” Perfect, my soul purrs.

I read 150 books this year thanks to the public library, menopausal insomnia, and a new-found love of illustrated books. I’ve also quit Twitter, became haphazard on Insta, and dug out my sewing machine. All tales for another time.

I finally pulled together a story that has haunted me for decades and the readers got the most important parts. It’s more about finding a north star of sorts. Finding the thing that keeps you interested in the future. The thing that propels you to appreciate all the good things in your life. It’s also a story about an older woman who scared me and inspired me at a crucial time in my life. I finally wrote about this stranger I met in campground outside of Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and how I did not want to become what I perceived her to be. She also planted a seed of what aging could look like. As I have struggled to sort out this story, I now realize that this is the turning point of the book. It’s the love story of my book–finding a role model–and it feels incredible to finally have it in draft form.

Another habit I cultivated this year was to write a short journal of how that writing session went, what I need to work on next, and what worked, what is not working, etc. Today I am doing that here because I have sacrificed this writing space for all The Things above. Now as the sun moves ever more south and west into the winter months, there is lightness in the peaceful joy of finishing this writerly commitment without having to sacrifice time backpacking, hiking, and riding my bike. A type of wintering that I very much need.

While I paint, I like to listen to podcasts to fill my ears with the words of others. This week I thought about artists who have evolved over time and who fill me with wonder about aging, learning, and the creative process. I’m finally feeling like I can move on to other stories as a new year arrives, and I’m ever so grateful for seasons that roll on by.

Recently I listened Krista Tippett interview Nick Cave on On Being, and he summed up how this year felt (with regards to my writing and other creative pursuits):

You only need ten songs. Ten beautiful breathtaking accidents to make up a record. You have to be patient and alert to the little miracles nested in the ordinary.

Yes.

Gratitude to you, little miracles of the ordinary nested in 2023.