Novel Beginning at the Point of Creativity

I was recently awarded a three-week artist residency and was gifted both space - a cottage by the sea in Portsea, thank you very much – and time away from my paid gig and my family.

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When the email arrived, I was giddy with excitement and started dreaming of all of the ways I would spend my time: reading; sleeping in; reading; long walks on the beach; reading; dining out; reading; long hot showers; and a page or two of writing.

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My residency didn’t work out quite the way I envisaged but it has had a transformative effect on me. I learned a lot about myself, my writing, and most importantly who I am when I’m not a mum, employee, community volunteer, wife, daughter, friend, dog owner …

 

1. Mother’s guilt is all in my head.

I barely slept leading up to my departure.

My days were a frantic haze of:

• cooking meals, for me and my family – even though my beloved does most of the cooking;

• washing every scrap of dirty clothing in the house - including under my teen’s bed (rubber gloves, a face mask and tongs were required for this daring feat);

• changing bed linen – and praying they do the same before I get home. Everyone knows sheets get changed weekly, don’t they?

• taking our dog for long walks - his feet wouldn’t be touching pavement for three weeks;

• applying fertiliser and wetting agents to my vegie garden – I wasn’t confident my family knew we have one; and

• getting on top of all my work projects – because I’m indispensable, right?

No one asked me to do this.

No one expected me to do this.

Mother’s guilt wouldn’t allow me not to.

I was so exhausted when departure day arrived it was lucky I remembered to pack undies and my laptop.

 

2. Imposter syndrome stops me from chasing joy.

For days my internal sound system played my greatest hits, on repeat, with the volume turned up to eleven.

• I’m not good enough

• I’m not a writer

• I don’t deserve this

• Who do I think I am?

• What will people think?

• What if I get writer’s block?

• What if my writing’s shit?

I knew, if I listened to the soundtrack, if I allowed it to dictate the value I placed on myself and my writing, I would never achieve my goal to become published author.

It took every ounce of my resilience to ignore the messages, to embrace the opportunity offered me and to walk out of my house with my head held high – and a bottle or two of Rosé for the days the doubts come creeping back in.

 

3. Muses are real.

A few years ago, I listened to author, Steven Pressfield, speak to Oprah on her SuperSoul Sunday podcast about resistance and our need to make space for our muse (I think he referred to it as our soul) to speak to us – about whatever it is we want to achieve. The discussion was a bit woo woo for me and I hadn’t given it any more thought.

Because, what working mother has time to sit quietly and give space for their muse to speak to them?

Not me.

But when I did make space, my creative spirit came alive.

Ideas flowed freely.

Scenes wrote themselves.

An idea for my next novel came to me, fully formed.

I was quiet.

I was open.

My muse answered the call.

 

4. There is a tiny troll in all of us.

I am in no way a fashionista or someone who’s obsessed with their hair and makeup. But I do like to present a certain version of myself to the world and only ever slob-out in the privacy of my own home.

In the first week I showered every day, but my hair was untouched by shampoo. The only makeup I used was sunscreen.

The second week I showered every other day, scraped the same tracksuit off the floor daily and forgot to brush my teeth more than once.

By the last week, I kept my hair hidden under a beanie and there was a funky smell in my bedroom.

It was gross.

It was liberating.

It gave me more time to write.

I made appointments with my hairdresser and beautician for my first week home.

 

5. There is NO PLACE like home.

The first week away was bliss.

The second week I stayed glued to my laptop. I was focused.

The third week I rang my family every day. They surprised me one night and turned up with dinner and our dog. I was so excited I nearly cried.

When they left, I was so sad, I did cry.

There were a few days I wanted to go home.

I’m proud of myself for staying strong.

I finished editing my novel – my cottage by the sea has never seen happy dancing like it.

I finished a short story and submitted it for a competition – the prize includes a two-week residency. I don’t dare tell my family I’ve entered.

I used my muse’s gift and started developing my next novel.

But the first night back in my own bed, with my beloved beside me, heavy snoring included, filled me with joy.

Yes, there are mountains of washing to be done, a dog to be walked, meals to be cooked, school lunches to plan.

And that’s okay, because my cup is full and my muse will be on my shoulder, whispering new scenes in my ear as I do all of it.

 

Would I take a three-week time out again?

Hell, yes. And I would probably ask if I can pay to stay another week.

But please don’t tell my family.

Chase your joy.

You deserve it.