January 14, 2020
NOTES ON A WRITING LIFE | 7
(Duke du Berry, Books of Hours, c. 1410) / Public Domain
Dear All,
I’ve been thinking about crop rotation in medieval England – ( no, not as a topic for literature, but in the context of having to rest and recuperate for at least a month.) Two fields were planted up each year, and one left to lie fallow. Then the crops were rotated and a different field lay fallow, in order to build up nutrients in the soil and rest for twelve months without having to produce anything.
The analogy for a writer is clear – but these days in farming, people just pour on fertilizer and chemicals, at least in the west. No matter what your occupation, you are supposed to get back to work as soon as possible – back to “normal” no matter what has been happening to you, or what life crisis you have passed through lately. Just add vitamins – oh, and get back to the gym. I was talking recently with a fellow writer about this, she in the throes of bringing out a new book, being asked to sign up for readings and performances, to write for social media, send photographs, arrange for interviews, answer e-mails right away, after editing and line-editing and having long discussions with her publisher – I in my fallow state, waiting to see what might occur to me next. We talked about how unavoidable it seems, when you have a new book coming out, how exciting, even compelling – and how hard it is to say No. It is, after all, everything you have worked for. You want people to read your book, you want it to be available, you want the reviews and interviews and other public statements of yourself – and yet, you are stressed, tired sometimes to exhaustion, longing for a break. I remember once running into another writer friend who was on the last leg of a book tour, and who burst into tears when I asked her how she was. “I just want to go home!”
We sometimes feel that we get our fallow time through being offered residencies, or arranging for writers’ retreats. Yet in these places, we often feel extra obliged to get on with our work. We are there as writers, we have been paid for, or we ourselves have paid to be there – to write! This is of course wonderful – what could there be to complain about? But it isn’t exactly fallow time. Neither is being on vacation, where you often seem to have less free time than at home, with family, friends, a lover or spouse, and sights to see, the world to explore and notice. When can we get our down time? Do we have to be ill to deserve it, to allow ourselves to do nothing, to rest, to daydream, to doze and let ideas float through us untethered to any actual task in hand? I think that because writing seems like such a privileged occupation and because time to write is so hard to come by when we are young, working at other jobs, raising children, cooking for others, whatever – we feel a particular obligation to be writing all the time. Or editing. Or proof-reading. Or teaching others to write. Or even just cleaning out our desks, in order to start again on the round of work to be done. When we are invited to bring our work out into the world, isn’t it churlish to say, we would rather just stay home?
I’m suggesting a rhythm here similar to crop rotation. Two years’ work, one year fallow. Two weeks on, one week off. Imagine it. In this country, the US, doing nothing almost amounts to a sin. It certainly was when I was growing up in England. We are all of us programmed to work and keep going, no matter what, and from where I sit this seems to be doing us harm.
So for 2020 – already a year in which instant action on all fronts seems to be necessary - let’s try to celebrate the benefits of doing nothing. What can I call it? Not leisure, as even that conjures up strenuous activity these days, and leisure outfits to match. There’s a French word “vaquer” suggesting emptiness. To let things empty out, so that something may eventually come to refill that emptiness. To give life a chance to show its hand.
“There’s a French word “vaquer” suggesting emptiness. To let things empty out, so that something may eventually come to refill that emptiness. To give life a chance to show its hand.”
So, happy empty times in 2020 to my fellow writers and artists. Happy staring into space – that bugbear of school-teachers. Happy watching the grass grow and the leaves unfurl and the world go on its way.
Affectionately, Ros
New Year
One day after another,
Blue beads strung on a web of time.
Air shifts, moon grows,
Grass inches up.
A new bloom today on the pink hibiscus.