On December 15th, six hours after submitting Hooked’s final revision, I lost my voice. Literally. All these years a devoted disciple of the “tell your story” gospel, and, upon surrendering that story for my editor’s review, I couldn’t manage a rasp of a whisper. (Dear Universe, must you be so heavy-handed in your metaphors?)
I won’t lie: the six weeks leading up to that deadline were rough, reminiscent of the final push to get through the fishing season, when Joel, the Nerka, and I all stagger into September, hanging on by threads of winter promises. I made similar promises for all the things I’d do after the book was sent off, lining the kitchen table with a sheet of butcher paper and, whenever I walked by, scribbling vows to neglected friends and responsibilities. Oil change. Renew driver’s license. Dinner w/ Mom. Call AB. Haircut. Trim toenails. Our roof started leaking, weeks of heavy Pacific Northwest rains distilled to a steady drip from the kitchen light. I taped the switch off, spread towels across the linoleum, and went back to writing. My left eye developed a twitch.
Those butcher paper promises ended up being just that – paper promises, further IOU’s. As soon as the book was out of my hands, I collapsed into bed for days. Honestly? Losing my voice was a relief. My loved ones wanted to celebrate this long-anticipated landmark, but I didn’t feel celebratory. I felt unmoored, missing the companion that had so long anchored my days. This was a side of writing a book that I hadn’t foreseen: the loneliness when it was gone, the uncertainty of what would take its place.
(A week into this feeling, I came upon a post by Dani Shapiro that perfectly named it. Bereft. As if to balance out the ham-fisted smack-down of stripping me of my ability to tell any story, the universe proffered just the right reassurance at just the needed time. I may have been sad, but I wasn’t alone.)
My voice returned, but I stayed quiet. Subdued. I’ve shared deeply personal writing over recent years, yet it wasn’t until submitting this final offering that I felt truly exposed. I didn’t want to do anything but hunker down with Joel and retreat.
But Joel wasn’t having it. He insisted I’d achieved a major life goal – a dream! – and that deserved recognition. “You’re the one always telling me we choose how we feel. You can spend these weeks waiting and feeling miserable about what might be, or you can be proud of what you accomplished and enjoy this time we have together. It’s up to you.”
In my book and in life, Joel always has the best lines.
So I took his advice. That means re-appearing in my life, turning my energy outward. Giving back to you who so generously carried me all these months. It means celebrating what is, while trusting what will be.
And it means being able to say yes to invitations I would’ve had to decline earlier this winter. Opportunities like Wage Slaves: the 78 Cents Edition. I’m honored to join Sonya Lea, Storme Webber, Michelle Penaloza, and Jean Burnet in this January 19th reading about work, hosted by Seattle’s Hugo House and presented in collaboration with Hedgebrook.
Following that theme of work and writing, I’m excited for the Young Fishermen’s Storytelling Workshop in Juneau on January 30th, a class sponsored by the Alaska Marine Conservation Council that I’ll be co-teaching with Alaskan author Miranda Weiss. (If you’re thinking about attending the Alaska Young Fishermen’s Summit 2016 that week, go ahead and plan on staying one extra day to join us – we’re going to have a fantastic time!)
FisherPoets Gathering, of course, is just around February’s corner, the 26th – 28th this year. The schedule will be out soon, and there’s already an impressive line-up of veteran favorites and first-timers. (Especially thrilling: Belly Meat, Sitka’s favorite bluegrass band, is making the trip down to Astoria!)
Finally, at the AWP Conference in Los Angeles on March 31st, Christine Byl, Eva Saulitis, Susannah Mishler, Lu-Anne Haukaas Lopez, and I will talk about how physical labor provides the lifeblood for our creative work, on the panel, Women at Work: Labor and the Writing Life. If there could there be a more appropriate capstone to this winter’s themes, I can’t imagine it.
That’s what’s going on here, friends. If you’re able to make it to any of these events, I’d love to see you. Meanwhile, thanks for leaving a light on – it feels good to be back with you, and I’m eager to hear how you’re doing. How’s 2016 treating you so far? What are you celebrating, where are you focusing your energy, what are you choosing to trust?Read More