I’m harbouring some unproductive patterns, and the effort to break out seems immense. Somehow, the two-point-five metres between the couch and my desk has become an insurmountable distance, no matter how many rules I try to impose on myself. Then, even if I’ve made it to the desk, a thousand distractions lurk between logging into my laptop and opening any word processing software. Even as I’m slogging through quagmires of aggregators, clicking link after link to view pointless images, I know that stringing phrases into sentences — however horrible, however few — is a better use for my time than what I’m doing. But there’s always one more link to click, one more comment thread to read, and then it’s too late to go to bed early. Again.

So I write this because I want to return to something without going backwards. Whatever I was writing 10 years ago is not what I will produce now, under these circumstances, with these surroundings. I’m no longer interested in adhering to a schedule or delivering n posts per week. This space is no longer a goal in itself. But it’s as good a place as any to experiment with putting one word next to another, just to see how they fit.

So the intent was always to post something once a week. Not just anything though. Something good. And fuck if that plan didn’t seize up my creative muscles until I was just barely getting by on what I could squeeze out for the unbelievably easy to please office crowd. Between perfectionism, feeling generally uncommunicative, and a couple of extracurricular editing contracts, I have been pretty well silent here for nearly a month.

Someone at work today told me it’s winter. Which is impossible because the world is still green and yellow and red and orange. These West Coasters don’t understand my winters, and I’m not sure I understand theirs. But I am in love with this lazy autumn. My street is littered with big orange-gold leaves, and just today, I conceded that the mornings are a bit too chilly for my heavy summer jacket and shrugged into my light wool coat. The rains will start soon enough, and I’ll have to learn to deal with the damp heavy darkness. It’s amazing what the sight of green grass can do for the soul at this time of year.

Somewhere else it’s NaNoWriMo. And Movember. But I am participating in a different kind of contest. A photo challenge to document aspects of my world with a different focus each day. I don’t have any aspirations to join the ranks of my many photographer friends. It simply seems like a good opportunity to re-engage with the world I find myself moving through. I’ve been disconnected and distant so far. Reluctant to force my way in anywhere. But it’s time to connect with this city a bit more. Learn it for what it is and isn’t. Take us both for what we are.

Recently, I uprooted what feels like everything. In reality, I kept my husband and parts of my job, but we moved our lives to the West Coast, leaving many good friends and a few bad habits behind. The physical upheaval unearthed a capacity for openness that has taken me two months to begin examining.

It could be that just living here breeds both physical and mental activity. In the context of this new life, I can’t seem to stop exploring thoughts. Chasing down ideas and finding the intersection where I can join the conversation.

All this is just the catalyst for a vocal resurgence. I’ve been excusing my silence as a refusal to add to the din of opinions battling inanely in the chasms and caverns of the internet. Which is ridiculous, now that I name it. A thousand others may say the same things, more succinctly, more loquaciously, more elegantly, or more crudely. But maybe I can pick up a few things others have missed along the way. And within this, we may find the beauty of meeting each other inside experience. In plain voice.

But it was something more too. A blink, an innocent glance, a sudden grin. His face shifting from expression to expression. Charm and pathos and perfectly timed anything for a laugh. I’m a sucker for a man with crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

And pratfalls. They get me every time.

This season is always both contemplative and chaotic. Something about the preparations and the people creates swirls and eddies in my thought patterns but leaves a kind of stillness in the centre. I’ve watched the sunrise this morning. Gradients of orange and yellow to purple-gray clouds. I haven’t actually seen the sun yet. Such a slow process at this latitude at this time of year.

There are some few last minute tasks. But they won’t take much time. As my dad would say, “It’s time to slip into dawdle.”

I am delighted.

Delighted doesn’t quite capture it.

I am gleeful. Elated. Kid-on-Christmas-morning out of my mind.

I’ve driven on the roads that have yet to be cleared. I’ve had to be pushed onto the road by a stranger. I’ve had to forward-reverse-forward-upshift-reverse-forward on several occasions times. Getting anywhere takes that tiny bit longer that seems to make other people cranky. None of that touches this vibration of excitement. This is how all Decembers should be.

That’s a big realization — and an even bigger admission. I knew, in an off-hand, not-really-admitting kind of way, that I was a good writer. I had a knack that perhaps, kinda sorta, people found entertaining. Oh, I’ve been encouraged (repeatedly). I’ve been prodded (persistently). And I’ve worn out my heels shuffling my feet along this dirt road. Choked on the clouds of dust I’ve been kicking up. Enough is almost enough.

Strangely, I don’t feel like I’ve wasted all these years with my indecision and self-doubt. I’ve been ripening and practising. I realized how far I’d come when I was writing a short profile article about two months ago. I wrote a bit of description that I was particularly pleased with. The words lined up in front of me and danced in perfect synchronization. But as the article took shape, I discovered that little bit of description detracted from the focus of the article. So I cut it. And my heart didn’t cry out. My world didn’t collapse. The article came back to me with a resounding 96% on it.

The problem is I’m not really sure what I mean to do. I’ve given myself another few months to suss out what I want. I feel like I’m on the cusp of something huge. It’s more like a chasm that I’m going to have to crawl down without knowing where my next toe-hold is. Or maybe I’m at the bottom crawling up. I don’t know. There’s a damn lot of rock, in any case. And only a few possibilities for the consequences of climbing.

2. I got the twitter. I have no idea why I joined, and I’m not really sure I understand what the point is. But if you’re on twitter and you want to follow me (or if I can follow you), look me up. My username is “milkcratejess”. I remain uncertain and wary. For now.

3. My mind is in turmoil, and my heart has sunk. I have found out that my husband considers mashed potatoes a radical shift in the Christmas dinner traditions of his family. I argue that roasted potatoes are not my forte, and that I’m quite good a preparing mashed potatoes. Besides, I miss them sometimes.

4. The September weather has been dismayingly uncooperative. It persists in breaking records for daytime high temperatures. I want to wear sweaters, and I’m sick of my summer clothes. Far more sick than I ever get of my winer clothes. I want to wear boots. And my new wool hat.

5. I ought to have been in bed an hour ago.

I’ve decided to let go and enjoy the ride. I’ve discovered the pattern of my years, and there’s no sense in fighting the seasons. I write best when the weather is cool and I have nowhere better to be than inside. I’m going to relax in the sun as much as I can while I can go outside without six layers of clothing. Since the weather is on no schedule and follows no pattern, I’m abandoning my scheduled posting for the summer, and I’m happy with that decision. I’ll still write and some of it will end up here, but I can’t be strict with myself when there’s precious sunshine to lay around in. Things might be different if I lived somewhere with more regular seasons, but we take what we can get around here, and this year, it seems to be even less than usual.

But since I’m speaking as me and not my fictionalized narrator self, I want to say thank you to everyone who reads and comments. I’m fairly bad about responding to individual comments because I’m not always sure what to say, but I read and appreciate your words and reactions. You keep me going and you make me want to write better every time.

Affectionately,
Jess