writing for self-discovery

Wind charges through yellowing trees snatching leaves in its turbulent wake. It howls of storms coming, blasting through my southern windows flung wide on this 82-degree day. A few determined Asian Beetles cling to the screens momentarily, then are ripped away in the gale. Good riddance. Yesterday was just as hot with NO wind. Thousands of those nasty insects swarmed the doors and windows, finding their way into the house.

But moving on…

Fall in Minnesota is predictable in its unpredictability. Today we sweat; tomorrow it snows. Any atmospheric conditions that prevail are less aberration than expectation. My weather app says rain for the next four days. That should wipe the trees of any leaves the wind has missed.

I’m in a pensive mood. Several days ago, I received an email from an old friend from the writers’ group in Bali. Steve was the glue, the force of nature that held the group together and maintained order when egos clashed, and trust me, no one has more volatile egos than writers critiquing other writers.

Steve sent the email to others in the group, and over the past few days they have responded with updates about their published works. One just landed a three-book contract. It was thrilling to hear of their successes.

But…

All I could report were a few frivolous poems and periodic posts to my blog. Emotions rippled through me. I suddenly missed ‘the group’ terribly, the people, the camaraderie, the challenge to constantly improve, and the writing. How I missed the thrill of creating on the page.

Boohoo. Poor me. What have I done since our last meeting in 2019? Why haven’t I written if I love writing so much?

Well, first there was the month in Italy on the Amalfi Coast. Fabulous!

Then two years of Covid and monkey infestation in Bali. Devastating.

Then there was a nine-month adventure in Mexico. Delightful!

And then…

I moved to The Family Farm and it’s been nonstop physical labor for the past year. Joyfully productive and exhausting.

Choices.

I made them.

Well, except for Covid. I didn’t choose Covid, and I didn’t choose not to write. During that time, fighting monkeys and trying to maintain a shred of sanity, I was mentally and emotionally incapable of writing.

Steve’s email and the responses from those who were my peers have inspired me. I’ve located the draft of Nettle Creek. I know if I start rereading it, I’ll start rewriting it, marking changes in red on every page. My pensive mood will pass. I’ll be hooked and obsessed with writing again.

So here I am. The construction on my garage/loft/deck/entryway addition isn’t finished, but I have hired help to do the work. Bear has moved into his ‘project’, so there’s no need for me there. I have free time for the first time since coming here.

It’s sitting there, staring at me, daring me to pick it up. Nettle Creek: a fictionalized story of this very area: rural northern Minnesota. When I began writing the saga of Stella, I had no idea I would be returning here, that I would complete the novel on site.

Freakishly synchronistic.

Did I just say complete the novel? Okay, but not quite yet. Short days and long nights loom on the horizon. Right now, though, October’s Bright Blue Weather beckons me outside, tempts me to collect wild turkey feathers, harvest cattail bouquets, and breathe in the dusky scents of autumn.

But winter’s coming…