Seasons change; focus changes. With spring’s arrival, there has been a lot of shifts and opportunities coming, not just for me but for many people that I know. One thing that has been coming to the forefront of my mind is my writing. I’m no longer as content to sit & let myself while away the hours with needle & thread. That doesn’t mean that crocheting or sewing or any other craft isn’t as important to my peace of mind; it just means that my attention has moved on.
Some of this is seasonal. When the weather is cold, my impulse is to be still & passive; to fill the hours in a warm place with someone familiar doing not much more than focusing on the work between my hands. Quiet activity in a quiet season. Writing is lonely & it’s hard to imagine sitting at a desk under a single lamp with the dark on the other side of the curtain, much less stare down the inner critic with pages in hand while my husband is in his kitchen making cookies & humming along to the radio.
But some of this is self-criticism too. After long years of not believing that I could make a “proper” living from writing, that I wasn’t worth listening too, that making something physical was practical, but that no one “needed” to read my words, my head is clearing. & while the idea of making writing my job (which has been my not-so-secret wish since childhood) is still scary, last week I decided to stop separating the things I create onto utilitarian & esoteric categories.
I decided to picture my writing career as a fiber work in progress. Each step, each choice, each class I take or group I run or commission I get is all built on top of each other.
I’m sure that the idea sounds really obvious & it is hard to admit that the realization took me this long. But, when I believed that I couldn’t actually succeed as a writer before, my perception was that I just kept chasing goals or stumbling into chances & every good thing that happened was just chance. I couldn’t control whether or not an editor would like my piece & if things went my way, there was no way to reproduce that success. If they went badly, then clearly it was proof that I was wrong & didn’t deserve anything anyway.
But I don’t believe that any more. I don’t want to believe it any more. & I can see where one choice leads to another & I’m free to make a way for myself just as I’m free to make something out of a needle and thread. At the very least, my writer’s brain is eager to run with the metaphor & find the foundation chain & trace the progress forward. Seasons change; focus changes.