I don’t know what I’m doing anymore (but I’m still doing it)

It’s morning. I have to get words down for a book that’s due to a lovely publisher. I’m excited by this story. I love the characters. I want to dive back into it.

I make coffee, set it on its lovely ever-warm plate in my cozy basement office, and start writing. I’m just getting into it when my Pomodoro timer informs me it’s time for my first break.

I stand up because this 47-year-old body can’t just stay seated for twelve hours and write like my much younger body used to. I also pick up my phone and check messages. If I’m lucky, there’s nothing.

I’m rarely lucky.

This morning it’s one from my maman who doesn’t remember when I’d come and really wants me to come today (I can’t. She has dementia and is in a home, well cared for, but it still hits). The other is a medical appointment for my dad. He’s also got dementia but lives alone at home, so I’m coordinating all the care and various professionals who make sure he’s still alive, help him out, and provide much needed company.

He lives an hour and a half away. Part of my body (my left shoulder, specifically) continuously holds tension for the next ball to drop (lots of balls drop regularly). I know it’s my left shoulder because it went out for no reason last December when he was in hospital, while I was sitting on his bed, while he was trying to remember my name, and that shoulder has never quite sat right since then.

Bodies. They hold the stress we don’t have time to deal with.

I call back for the medical appointments for dad because there are health things that need immediate attention and I also have to organize rides for him since most of his appointments are in Ottawa (where I am), and he’s an hour and a half away. If I can’t book a ride for him, I’m using up six hours of driving back and forth, and my left shoulder is going to let me know how I feel about that.

I do the calls. Leave all necessary messages. Put my phone away.

Back to writing.

Deep breath. Earphones on. I put a fireplace video on my second screen and listen to the crackling.

I wonder if I should call mom back now or if it’ll just raise her hopes that I’m coming today. I decide not to call.

The fire is still crackling. No new words have been added.

Deeper breaths. Close eyes. Find centre, whatever the hell that means.

Focus.

Open eyes, put Word in focus mode, and just start writing. The words aren’t necessarily good or bad. They’re words. They continue the story. I can fix them later.

Now, I need words that I can fix.

Just like I need to leave messages so I get call backs. Like for the medical driving company who’ll hopefully have someone available, so I don’t have to drive six hours, bringing me closer to that teeter totter edge of burn out… stop.

I close my eyes. Deep breath. Roll shoulders. Left shoulder is telling me off.

Okay. I stand up, do some stretching. A cat rolls at my feet. I play with the tummy (which is not a trap), and continue stretching.

I settle at my desk; the cat settles under my desk.

Fingers on keys. No thinking.

I start writing. The words begin to flow.

My phone rings.

Shit. I forgot to put it back on Do Not Disturb and put it out of arm’s reach. I look at the screen. It’s the driving company. They’ll leave a message.

I don’t want to talk to them, even though they’re lovely. That’ll break the flow more. I send to voicemail, and watch as my phone turns it into a written message. Bad luck – they’re answering in French, and my phone is not good at bilingualism.

Okay. I’ll listen to the message. Then I’ll go back to writing.

Oh! They have a driver! My left shoulder starts to loosen a bit. The cat looks at me like he’s saying “get back to work.” I tell him I agree.

I’ll tell dad later about this appointment. If I tell him too early, I’ll be on the phone every day leading up to it as he calls thinking it’s that day. If I tell him two days beforehand, he’ll still have time to get ready.

I make a note in my agenda so I don’t forget. And in my iPhone. With a reminder, even though I usually miss those.

Okay.

I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Turn the pomodoro timer to 25 minutes.

Hit start.

And get words down.

It’ll never be perfect. But I’ve spent decades chasing words, and even if they grow more elusive at times and real life gets more intrusive, I don’t intend to let go of them just because the chase is harder.

I don’t know what I’m doing with most of my life right now, but I’m still doing it. Just like I don’t know where this story is going, but I’m still writing it. Nothing is perfect. Nothing ever was. Nothing will ever be.

So I do what I’ve always done, the only thing any writer can ever do: I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and write.