Image description: Black and white photo of a short-haired white woman (Nicola) holding a tabby cat (Charlie) blissing out in mutual regard. Photo by Kelley Eskridge.
Usually at this time of year I have a reasonably full calendar for the year ahead: books coming out, book-related travel, family visits, holidays, talks, panels, teaching, conferences, and, of course, books in progress. Not this time. For 2024 I have nothing firm lined up and no travel booked. I don't have a book coming out and I am not currently working on a new one.
There are plenty of things I should be doing—stories and essays I've promised—and plenty I could be doing—at least three books I'm eager to write. But for once I am going to take my time before plunging in. It feels a little odd but it's a deliberate choice; it's necessary.
Kelley and I have spent the last three years working flat out and stretched to breaking point by various work, personal, and family catastrophes. Frankly there have been a couple of times when we've moved past breaking point. We have neglected friendships. Our house looks like a bombsite. We have pushed our bodies, bank accounts, and will to the limits.
Given our on-going family situation this is not going to improve anytime soon. I suspect there will be times in the coming months when we have to drop everything and travel, and/or spend weeks at a stretch wholly focused on handling crises.1 We have to take some pre-emptive measures. I have close personal experience of what can happen to people who don't take care of themselves—who just keep going, who gut it out, who pretend the strain they are under is not extraordinary and the burdens they carry are supportable by mere human beings. At worst it can destroy people; at best we begin to unravel, lose perspective, and start making terrible decisions. And this happens to essentially fit and fit and healthy people. I have, among other things, MS, a degenerative and disabling illness. I'm already pushing into redline territory; if I push any harder something will break.
So right now I need to just...stop. We need to rebuild friendships. Turn the house back into a haven. We need to sit by the fire, talking idly of nothing in particular. We need to ignore what should be done—ignore the pressure to be Good Daughters and Good Sisters and Good Neighbours—and instead do what must be done for our health and our sanity: slow down, look around, and breathe.
For the coming year, then, Kelley and I have said no to every conference, convention, and benefit dinner, and have accepted story commissions only informally. I've walked away from a couple of consulting-media type things and refused all Good Citizen tasks such as sitting on boards and juries. After February I don't have a single confirmed appearance and only one firm writing-related commitment—and only because it's for an old friend who is no longer with us.
Last time I posted something like this—more than 10 years ago—I got a lot of anxious emails. So let me preempt some questions. Do I want to stop writing? No! Absolutely not! Just the opposite. Writing is one of the things that makes me feel most alive and truly myself. I not only love it but need it. Writing, though—the creation of good fiction, or at least the kind of fiction I prefer—requires a particular animal vitality. It's one of the first things to drain away when we're under great stress, or mentally, physically, and/or emotionally exhausted. And it's one of the last things to seep back after we recover from illness or loss or trauma. It's difficult to describe—it's a rushing, bubbling, vital energy, yes, but it's also quiet and still, like a pool or a well. Or perhaps the aquifer that that's the source of spring, pool, and well—old and deep. Fast to deplete and slow to refill. Mine is almost drained.
I need to let my energy slowly seep back and my aquifer refill. To do that, I need, first, time and rest and lack of stress. And, second, simple joys—time to just put my head back and look at the sky, to dwell in the bliss of a small cat's regard, or the aromatic warmth of the perfect cup of tea. To breathe and feel glad to be alive. To take time for just us. Time to just be.
Do I want to stop writing-related activities? No! I love performance, public appearances, meeting readers, meeting fellow writers, hanging out in the bar. If all goes well, 2025 will brim with those glories.
But for now, for a little while, I need to stop. Read. Breathe the air. Listen to the birds. Hold the cats. And, as I begin to recover, to actively seek out sources of joy rather than obligation: human connection, using my body, learning something new, relaxing with old friends and making new ones, listening to music—maybe even making some. Regrouping and relearning; reimagining the energy to be spontaneous again and take life on the volley.
I'll still write blog posts—but not to any schedule: maybe more, maybe fewer, maybe longer, maybe shorter. (I don't know, and I'm unwilling to force myself to know.) I probably won't read any books for blurbs—though there may be exceptions—and only for review if they're particularly delicious, dangerous, provocative, and/or dangerous. My main task and pleasure for the coming year is to gather, grow, and delight in health, happiness, and zest.
That, then, is my hope for 2024: health, happiness, and zest. For all of us. See you on the other side.
1 And then there's the world situation—later next year I'm guessing I'll have a lot to say about war, politics, climate, and democracy. This year I haven't had the bandwidth.
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