The spring/summer flew by. I barely remember much about anything other than going to open houses, signing lots of paperwork, and moving lots of boxes. (Lots and lots of boxes.) After a year and a half of living with my parents out of a few suitcases, I bought a place (finally) and I am settled in nicely. I really do hate to move, but I think that is motivated by my scorn for disorganization. Discovering new places and new people is fun. Unpacking all my books and dishes is not.
Not gonna lie, the disjointedness of the last few years did a number on my writing output. So far this year I have only finished two stories. I wanted to finish my novel, but so far I’ve made little progress. That doesn’t mean I won’t get it done. The year is not over yet. I made a list of all the “in progress” projects I have and it’s a little daunting. But in a way, I like all the work I need to do. Won’t be bored at all.
Also earlier this year, I took my first ever writing retreat. I set out to Southern VA and in the quiet of the country, had a few good days of concentrated writing. I never travel to write, but I can see the appeal. The internet was scarce, no phone calls, no errands to run, or laundry to do. It was just me and the story. I need to do that more. I’m lucky that I live in an area that is very literary with lots of events, conferences, and other programs. So often, I don’t need to go anywhere, they come to me.
But going to a place to write felt meaning full and maybe because I knew the time was short, I wanted to make the most out of it. Maybe like an actor that goes to improve workshops to keep sharp, or musicians who collaborate just to see what would happen. It’s not really about producing great work, but more about just producing, just creating.
So I came back home with new stories and started submitting more stuff. I can’t remember how many rejections I have now, but I don’t think it matters. I’m still working, putting my work out there, and keeping busy.