Whenever I’ve been away from this blog for a while, something about the return always gets me pondering the nature of the whole writing enterprise.

Long abandoned has been my early aim of posting here weekly. Over the years, extended gaps between date headings usually pointed to background turbulence, in the form of personal difficulties I sometimes told you about later. 

More recently, it was the elongated Rivers project that kept me away. 

In both scenarios, as I debated whether to share with readers something of my coping or composing processes, I asked myself why you’d be interested at all. A familiar trope about writers labels them arrogant – it may apply to personal essayists above all. For my taste, those who lean too heavily into advice-giving or who obsess over minutiae tend to lose me. (An old favorite quip: “Is it solipsistic in here or is it just me?”) 

But you are here presumably because you want to be. It makes me think of how I first became aware of a writerly side by engaging in meaningful correspondence with friends. Not so different, I suppose, from an outlet like this. It’s as simple as hoping something I write will make you glad you’ve read it.

(Incidentally, as for this blog’s early email subscribers, WordPress informs me there’s no way to tell if posts bounce back from e-addresses no longer valid. It’s odd to call to mind a few friends who were so dear back then but with whom I’m no longer in contact – and to not know whether they still see what I write.)

Now that A Confluence of Rivers is, as they say, out in the world, so far I’ve done precious little to get it in front of readers outside of friends, family and local groups. And not for not wishing to, of course. Rather, a recent bout of family adversities temporarily displaced such efforts. Those urgencies have since eased and, like an ebbing tide allows a fresh view of solid rocks along the shoreline, this personal truism reasserts itself… When I’m able to smile again, the smile itself elicits a little tear. 

And then I can return to the writing desk. At times I’ve contrasted myself with writers who can’t not write, no matter the surrounding swirl. I’m glad for them. That’s rarely the case for me – but I wouldn’t chalk it up, strictly speaking, to lack of time or caffeine or determination to prioritize the practice. 

Sure, certain kinds of writing can be produced in the time-slivers. But to deeply engage with the inner writerly voice (I’ve named her Lydian) is instead a matter of mindspace. My Lydian clarity is least interrupted and most generative during early morning walking or knitting. When it’s not being used up on other processing or problem-solving, writing ideas burst and flow unbidden.

That’s when I can’t not. It’s how I know not that everything’s ok, but that I’m ok. It’s when the hard work of writing, while still work, feels easy again.

When just enough is checked off the to-do’s, focus is no problem. I get an inordinate amount of satisfaction, by the way, from replacing a cracked screen protector on my cell phone – precisely because of how far down on my to-list it was. Another slant on this comes from knitting. Once I’ve memorized a pattern, even though there’s a long way to go before finishing the piece, it feels in one sense as though I’m almost done. I’ve freed up mental space.

Some mindspace you wait for, some you seize.

When I was working on the book, I found myself taking lots of notes on the process itself, apart from content. It reinforced for me how with writing, as with many pursuits, you don’t really learn first and then do it. You learn what you’re doing by doing it.

Expecting to absorb all you’ll need to know upfront is like getting the sun in your eyes. Too much light is just glare. 

As much as I thought I knew going in, it fascinated me how much more I learned by doing and then reflecting. And more than an intentional review (like a homework assignment), by reflecting I mean simply noticing what arises and becomes clear along the way.

And, well, this may sound familiar… That’s also true of most things.