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| Autumn + Fog = Endless Inspiration! |
Welcome to my final post on my multi-week visit to Faversham last winter. In my previous posts I've described my general impressions of being in England, as well as my daily art practice. Today I want to go over what was probably the most valuable take-home from my stay: the manuscript I wrote in between sketching, shopping, and sightseeing.
Writing will always be my primary creative pursuit, and no matter where I travel to I always take a journal and pen with me. It's not unusual to find me spending several hours a day (or night) in a cafe or my hotel room writing down my impressions and recording my memories.
For this trip, however, I gave myself a much more serious writing goal than keeping track of how many historic sites I could cram into seven weeks, and it couldn't have been a worse decision: I thought I wanted to write a grief book.
Before I left home, I had the idea that my time in England would be well spent if I finally tackled writing the book I had wanted to read when my husband died; the one I couldn't find on any bookshelf regardless of how hard I looked.
Don't get me wrong: it wasn't that I couldn't find any grief books. Dozens of titles, ranging from the widely-recommended It's OK to Not be OK by Megan Devine, to Carol Cornish's The Undistracted Widow are readily available anywhere that sells books. The trouble I had with these and others like them was that not one addressed my particular situation. I didn't have children to help me navigate bereavement; my immediate family was already deceased; and my circle of friends is close, but small. All of the books seemed to take for granted that of course your adult children will handle cremation or funeral arrangements, and yes, you'll have casseroles piling up on your back porch, and yes, your fellow church members will do everything they can to be of assistance--they'll even bring more casseroles! But I didn't want advice on casseroles or church services; I wanted a book that told me how to sell a business while my bank accounts were frozen.
With that in mind, I decided I wanted to write a book for other widows who might find themselves in circumstances similar to mine; widows who were suddenly alone without practical hands-on knowledge or support while dealing with utter despair. In short, I wanted to write a cross between a road map and a how-to instruction manual that included all the things I had learned to do by being forced into action.
With this lofty goal in mind, I set out on my very first day in Faversham to buy a large-sized notebook (I already had my pens) that I began to fill the minute I returned home.
For the next forty days (and it was exactly forty days with all the symbolism that brings to mind) I was more than diligent. I made an outline with chapter headings. I wrote a full two pages every morning as soon as I finished cleaning up from breakfast. I wrote notes for the next day before I went to bed. I brainstormed marketing ideas. I started a bibliography. And with each writing session I became more and more despondent. Not because my subject was grief, but because I was bored beyond human endurance. Worst of all, I wasn't saying the things I wanted to say in the way I wanted to say them. By the end of the forty days I was basically ready to scream, "Oh, hell, who cares about grief! It's crappy and it sucks and it's the worst thing that will ever happen to you, but you will survive. You will. I promise. Look at me, here in Faversham writing a whole book when I couldn't get off the floor three years ago." And that was the entire message in a nutshell.
The minute I stopped long enough to truly listen to myself and to hear what it was I truly wanted I realized that the only way I had learned so much about a grief-filled life was because there wasn't a manual. There was no "rule book." Things that seemed hard at the time were only difficult because I was so deeply caught in grief and no book would ever have made any difference or my tasks any lighter.
Which is why after forty days and nights of dutifully plowing through a first draft I was beginning to hate, I suddenly wanted with all my heart and soul to tear up the field with my bare hands and burn down the barns while I was at it. I wanted to write a different book. I wanted to write a gothic romance (my ultimate favorite genre), one that included themes of grief, loneliness, betrayal and loss, but in a way that gave me, as well as potential readers a sense of . . . entertainment. I wanted to express my feelings and experiences through art, not a homework assignment.
The next morning after what I consider a genuine epiphany, I went out once again into the cold and bought a fresh set of lovely notebooks to start writing the real grief book; the one that was begging to be written as fiction--the absolute best way I know to tell the truth.
As soon as I set my mind to following my heart rather than my "shoulds" all kinds of magical things happened. I saw a little cat who would become a character in my story (I named him Mango) disappear through his own little portal cut into a church door. I saw where some of my characters would live:
Or haunt:
Or meet for a long history of fatal duels:
Overnight the Kentish wintry miasma of gray skies and dropping temperatures became as necessary to me as breathing. Best of all was coming home from my endlessly soggy walks, making a cup of tea, and sitting down to work at something I loved doing. As a child growing up in California I had always dreamed of one day writing in a garret with the rain pouring down and here I was!
So I say, write what calls the loudest to you, not what you think is the literary equivalent of liver and onions because it's "good for you." Creativity should be fun and satisfying; go for the eclairs. There's no shame or sense of defeat in abandoning a manuscript that bores or keeps you from wanting to continue, because essentially nothing is ever wasted. That same boring manuscript that has become an exercise in torture is in actuality a gift, the stimulus for writing something much, much better and more meaningful to you. For me, writing about my personal run-in with grief was--until it became a chore-- cathartic. It helped me to release a lot of my old thought patterns and examine why I was holding onto them in the first place. More importantly, having the discipline to write every day eventually led me to discover what it was I really wanted to write. If I hadn't made that initial effort I still would be thinking there was a book I was "supposed" to write, which after forty days there was. It just had vampires rather than tips on how to file estate taxes. And what could be better than that?
Tip of the day: Never refuse an eclair. Unless you're offered a sherry trifle instead.
Thank you so, so much to everyone who has taken the time to read these last few UK posts. Going to England on my own was one the most challenging, and rewarding things I have ever done, and I'm not finished by a long shot. Believe it or not (and I can hardly believe it myself) my next post will be coming from New Zealand. I'm leaving Albuquerque again for six weeks to draw, swim, and eat some of the best cakes on the planet while retracing my steps from a former life in downtown Auckland. See you soon!
