I’m truly beginning to feel the rhythm of my days now that I’ve officially finished with my former job. It’s strange, very strange. And yet I know it’s right, too, and my days begin to bear that rightness out.
There’s no photo of this week’s food adventures, though I’m thankful for all of them, and food is part of the rhythm I’m finding. I can’t locate my photo of red huckleberries… Once a year we get the very best pancakes because we get a handful of these. You’ll have to close your eyes and imagine, I guess, as that is the menu for tomorrow’s breakfast.
I know what they mean, those marks, each of them. But the big message is that I’ve committed to focus on this aspect of me, which is writing, and that I think about it daily whether I’m able to sit down to it or not. And most days, I can.
The three pages of free writing I try to do each day are becoming ingrained in me after many weeks. I’m careful not to count these as having accomplished any new writing of content, because they aren’t that at all. They are weightlifting. Exercise. Warm ups and stretches. They are a brain dump, a listing of ideas, a dreaming and unloading, mourning and celebrating. They are resolution.
I’ve been hard at work on my historical novel, though, the manuscript I’ve been attached to for the past three years or so. Renewed commitment to finishing the book is paying off. The parts I’ve gone over and over are ready for edits. The parts I wrote and haven’t looked at since their first draft are now receiving my scrutiny, and I feel that the story is taking real shape, with power and heart.
It doesn’t hurt that my word count is mounting again, after the mad slashes that had to be taken when I started over for the third time.
It all feels good and growing and real, at any rate. And I think that the rhythm means that it’s time to set myself some deadlines for finishing this work, don’t you?
So there is a rhythm in my days. I’m very grateful for how it’s shaping up.