I am very lucky, I know. After 10 years in government, I built up enough grants, courage, and emotional support of friends and family to take a three-month sabbatical to focus on writing poetry. I managed to edge a bit of fiction in there, too, not to mention some reviewing, some volunteering for CWILA, Arc Poetry Magazine and our son's school, and, of course, a stack of reading. I also spent more time focusing on the business side of of my writing career, including promotion, event-planning and setting up this very blog.
The sabbatical is almost over. But I'm hopeful that what it has taught me will last forever:
First, never think that the warm April weather in Ottawa, Canada, is going to be a "nice finish" to anything, other than to the idea that April will be warm and have nice weather.
Second, nature may abhor a vacuum, but a writer abhors the vacuum, the duster, the dish rag, the broom, the scrub brush and the mop, especially when all of them are now only mere feet away from her all day, every day. I am simultaneously deeply ashamed and deviously proud that my house has never been dirtier than it has been in these past three months when I was not commuting, not out of the house at work, and only a block away from the grocery store where we buy our cleaning supplies. The amount of dust I became capable of walking right past became a measure of my productivity. Okay, the sneezing fits may have lost me some time along the way, but every system is bound to have a downside.
Third, children will not, by will or by wonder, appear to understand the difference between "not working" and "working at home," no matter how many times you try to explain that you are not actually on vacation.
Fourth, the compulsion to volunteer one's time is directly inverse to the amount of time one has to volunteer.
Fifth, there really is a mental "muscle" you need to build up to increase how long and how well you can focus on your art, and, as a result, increase your output. It takes time to build that muscle, and it is completely pointless to berate yourself for having to start slowly.
Sixth, writers as a whole are sometimes painted as self-centred and competitive. These kind of paintings are usually done by the handful of writers who are self-centred and competitive. I have learned, yet again, that fellow writers make for an enormously supportive community. Everyone here has been there, and most of us actually want others to succeed. In fact, we really like it when they do. My thanks to everyone--near or distant, longtime supporter or brand new friend--who helped prop me back up whenever I started to slide through the floorboards of self-pity after being flattened yet again under the enormous business end of the arts.
My thanks again to the Ontario Arts Council for their support, and to everyone who helped me, in one way or another, make the most of it.
The sabbatical is almost over. But I'm hopeful that what it has taught me will last forever:
First, never think that the warm April weather in Ottawa, Canada, is going to be a "nice finish" to anything, other than to the idea that April will be warm and have nice weather.
Second, nature may abhor a vacuum, but a writer abhors the vacuum, the duster, the dish rag, the broom, the scrub brush and the mop, especially when all of them are now only mere feet away from her all day, every day. I am simultaneously deeply ashamed and deviously proud that my house has never been dirtier than it has been in these past three months when I was not commuting, not out of the house at work, and only a block away from the grocery store where we buy our cleaning supplies. The amount of dust I became capable of walking right past became a measure of my productivity. Okay, the sneezing fits may have lost me some time along the way, but every system is bound to have a downside.
Third, children will not, by will or by wonder, appear to understand the difference between "not working" and "working at home," no matter how many times you try to explain that you are not actually on vacation.
Fourth, the compulsion to volunteer one's time is directly inverse to the amount of time one has to volunteer.
Fifth, there really is a mental "muscle" you need to build up to increase how long and how well you can focus on your art, and, as a result, increase your output. It takes time to build that muscle, and it is completely pointless to berate yourself for having to start slowly.
Sixth, writers as a whole are sometimes painted as self-centred and competitive. These kind of paintings are usually done by the handful of writers who are self-centred and competitive. I have learned, yet again, that fellow writers make for an enormously supportive community. Everyone here has been there, and most of us actually want others to succeed. In fact, we really like it when they do. My thanks to everyone--near or distant, longtime supporter or brand new friend--who helped prop me back up whenever I started to slide through the floorboards of self-pity after being flattened yet again under the enormous business end of the arts.
My thanks again to the Ontario Arts Council for their support, and to everyone who helped me, in one way or another, make the most of it.
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