The forest (of writing) is mostly dark
When I have a terrible day — when tears well up in my eyes and threaten to spill over — I often get in my car and start driving even though I have no idea where I’m going. This happened again last Thursday.
Let me set the stage. First of all, our two-year-old isn’t sleeping. Still. He’s potty trained and sleep-trained and melatonin’ed. He’s covered in anti-itch cream and soothed and rocked. He’s bathed and lotion and yes we read books each night for thirty minutes. Nothing does the trick.
“Does he need a night light?” my mother asked on the phone the other day, her voice coming through the car’s Bluetooth, while I drove the kids to school. “Oh, no,” I said. “Patrick went to Target and bought him a brand new dinosaur night light and a Spiderman blanket, and a spider man rug, hoping to convince him to like his room.” Ben hears all this from the back seat, then shouts, full-tilt: “I DON’T like my ‘OOM!”
He’s not sleeping, so he’s cranky. And so am I.
Writing my second novel is — how do I say this — really freaking hard. Wednesday night, I read a chapter and a half to Patrick, then immediately melted down into a pile of mush because what I read out loud didn’t clear the bar of my own expectations. If you need a visual of what it’s like, I submit this reel from Courtney Maum:
Thursday morning, eyes swollen from sleeplessness and self-flagellation, I opened the dreaded document once more and tried again. At half-past ten, I shut my computer and drove across town for a medical appointment. My doctor had ordered me to have an ultrasound, hoping to find answers about an annoying (but hopefully non-serious) problem I’ve been having. As soon as I walked in, all the memories came flooding back of the many unsuccessful years Patrick and I spent trying to conceive a child.
The technician — bless her — had no idea of this history. (Seriously, though, shouldn’t it be on the chart?) Chipper and bright, she popped in, asked my birthdate and said, “I see you had your last ultrasound in July 2015. During your first trimester.”
I swallowed hard. “My only trimester,” I wanted to say. Instead, I said yes. The technician worked, sending black-and-white Rorschach-esque blobs across a screen. As I watched, there was an insane part of me that still surged with hope. I was there for a problem, but I couldn’t help but imagine what might happen in my heart if she discovered a pregnancy. Insane. Insane.
Afterward, I got back in my car and started driving, with no idea where I was headed. I had a few hours until I had to pick up the children from school. I knew I ought to be working on the novel. (That’s a thought that crosses my mind every minute of every day. Even right now, while I’m writing this newsletter, the thought crosses my mind, I ought to be writing my novel.) But the novel is hard, and on Thursday, I was so tired and so sad. I also had feelings of shame about my sadness. Shouldn’t I be over it already? Patrick and I have two wonderful boys. One of whom is not sleeping. Why would I want a newborn anyway? Shouldn’t I be over it?
But, somehow, I’m not over it. And so I drove. Eventually, I ended up driving down Bellemeade Boulevard past all the beautiful mansions. (I know deep down that their lives are not easier just because they have more square footage and a landscaping team, but man, if those lawns aren’t green in a drought.) I parked my car and headed to the stairs at Percy Warner Park. I wonder how many people have gone to the stairs simply because they have nowhere else to go.
And this is the part of the newsletter where I’m supposed to turn it all around and give you a pretty picture of leaves falling and a paragraph of hope, that says everything will be okay one day. And maybe it will. Or maybe it won’t. One thing I know for sure, I don’t have it all together. And maybe, just maybe, you don’t have it all together either. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the point.
This newsletter is called “The Forest is Mostly Dark.” The line comes from a Wendell Berry poem entitled “The Country of Marriage.” I chose the title for the newsletter thinking that it might also be the title of my next novel. I don’t know if that will be the case anymore, but I love the hopeful, honest quality of that line — the forest is mostly dark. Not completely. Not totally. There is still light to be found, if you’re brave enough to keep looking. Brave enough, as Berry writes, to keep “going on in.”
I don’t know what happiness or sadness awaits you this week. Are you sleeping or not sleeping? Are you eating well or poorly? Are the people you love okay? Are you at the end of a marathon or somewhere in the muddy, murky middle? Wherever you find yourself, I hope you know that you are not alone. And if you have a chance to drive yourself around with no clear destination, I say take it.
As Wendell Berry puts it in his poem The Country of Marriage, “The forest is mostly dark, its ways to be made anew day after day, the dark richer than the light and more blessed, provided we stay brave enough to keep on going in.”
You received this email because at some point in the past, you expressed interest or signed up for email updates. I hope the words bring a bit of encouragement to keep entering into the (mostly) dark forest we call life.
Recent Favorites:
LISTEN:
Live From Raleigh by Mission House. I adore Jess Ray, and when a friend pointed me to this album, I knew I’d be playing it on repeat. (This is what I listened to on that long solo hike last Thursday.)
READ:
“Your Identity is Cancer’s First Victim,” by J. Eric Wilson. My friend Eric is battling a second bout with brain cancer. His writing is sharp, open-hearted and kind. For anyone who has been dealt an unexpected medical diagnosis, this essay about identity is so beautiful and open-hearted. Here’s one line that really hit me: “It's so strange for people to be inspired by something you hate. Some people proudly make #cancersurvivor a central pillar of their identity. They broadcast it on social media and wear cancer-branded jewelry and t-shirts. They run races to raise funds for cancer research. I wanted nothing to do with any of that. Six years later, facing off with cancer again, I still hesitate in writing this essay.”
WATCH:
You’re Doing Great!, Tom Papa. (Netflix Comedy Special) I need someone to look me in the eye and say, ‘Really, you’re doing great!’ pretty much every day. Enter Tom Papa. Funny and insightful, this comedy special could also double as a therapy session.
Until next week!
With Love,
Claire