I’d planned on the momentum of writing carrying me through to the end of the month. I hadn’t planned on the holiday and a momentous life change coinciding, so here I am. The last week, I’ve managed at most 500 words a day – which, don’t get me wrong, is still words down on the story, so there’s that. It’s just not the 2000 a day I was managing earlier in the month. Life is like that. There are seasons of so-busy-you-can’t-even and there are seasons where you can balance all the things you’re doing like plates spinning on a stage. You find a flow, a rhythm, to moving along touching each task-plate to keep it going at just the right speed to maintain it’s balance before it starts to wobble and fall. For me, this is usually a temporary state of affairs.

It’s fun while it lasts, though. And I always try to get back to that flow state, because it feels wonderful. the crash, not so much. Still, as I get better I think I can maintain it all for longer and longer periods. Perhaps someday there won’t be a crash? Nah.

Because life happens. We don’t live in a vacuum, and if we did, we’d be intolerably lonely. Also, what’s the point of writing or creating art if you don’t have an audience? The dull humdrum of routine is a good goal, but you also need interruptions and crashes. They allow you to refine your processes, but also…

It’s an experience that will enrich your writing. I firmly believe that you can (and should) write about things you haven’t necessarily done yourself, if you do your research and can put yourself in the characters’ shoes to fill out the emotions realistically. Still, there is a depth to living through something that will change you, and as writers, we put ourselves in our work, whether we think we do or not. I know I can go back, read something I wrote ten years ago, and see where I’d do it differently now. The past is another land, and that woman is dead but not forgotten entirely. She lives on in me, yet I cannot return to her.

This week will mark an epoch in my life. My youngest child has been packing up all his stuff, and on Sunday he will get in his car and drive off to start his adult life in a new job, a new city, and while he’ll be back for the first couple of long weekends to finish up his college classes this semester, it won’t be the same. And after that, once he’s established his place down there, the visits will slow to occasional events. It is good, as it should be, and I am looking forward to empty nest. It will be quieter, and likely the writing will pick back up again. I’d deliberately chosen to spend more time with him this last week, helping him get ready and just… being together. Once he drives away this won’t be his home any longer, and that’s a huge change for both of us. I expect my baby bird to flutter back into the nest long enough to do laundry and eat inordinate amounts of food, but every flight outwards will be longer. As it should be.

And then, perhaps, I’ll have more time for writing.