Normally this morning I'd be scurrying around the house putting the final touches together for our annual Faber Family Christmas get-together. As we all know, this year is vastly different, and while I'm sad I won't be seeing my family — and haven't seen them since last year's gathering — I know it's for the greater good and the safety of us all. Still, it sucks, but I'm thankful that so far we've all been healthy, and I look forward to the day when we can all get together again and rehash the same old family stories that make us cry with laughter.
So instead of pacing in front of my living room window watching for familiar cars to turn the corner and speed down the street, I'm snuggled on the couch with a second cup of coffee watching the rain. I really am a young child when it comes to company coming, especially when it's my family. I get so excited and it's almost impossible to calm me down.
It used to drive my dad nuts (in a very good way), but he was one to talk — because as soon as someone arrived, his face would light up brighter than the North Star. He'd immediately sweep the grandkids into his arms and all attention would be on them. They knew the routine and I think they looked forward to it as much as he did. There would be the inevitable "Claw" game, and the kids knew what Grandpa was up to, but it didn't matter — they still fell for it every time, especially the boys. Their laughter alone was reward enough.
And wouldn't you know that as I'm writing this, the rain has stopped and the sun has come out. This has to be the metaphor for this entire year — I know it's mine, particularly this past week. As I've written in my past few posts, I'd been struggling a little, but this week it stopped raining and my sunshine came out with a vengeance.
I came up with a few reasons for the shift. One, I was tired — like so incredibly tired — and when I'm tired, everything goes to shit and I just can't seem to make anything work. So the first and most important thing I had to do was make myself rest. Like really rest. In the meantime, I've done my best to try and slow down, turn off my screens, and just relax.
Last Saturday I just had this urge to snuggle on the couch in the rec room and watch a movie. The fireplace was on and the big Christmas tree perfectly accented the ten candles I had lit on the coffee table. I searched Amazon Prime and eventually put on the 2019 adaptation of Little Women. If you haven't seen it, especially if you're a writer who's seemingly lost her way a little with her craft, I highly recommend it.
I have never identified more with a principal character in a movie than I did with Jo March. In this film version, she is me, and I am her. Her wild, carefree, and independent spirit tempered by other obligations. She desperately wants to write the stories she wants to write, but there always seems to be something in the way. She pushes her own aspirations into the background as life chugs along, and begins to doubt that she has the chops to make her dreams happen. Dreams aren't just something that come true — they take work and effort and a whole lot of gumption.
Like Jo, I'd lost my gumption. I'd lost my moxie. I desperately still wanted the dream, but I'd let myself entertain the idea that maybe I just didn't have it in me anymore. That maybe my writing would just consist of these once-a-week stories — totally discounting the fact that I've already written four books and created my own little publishing label. I seem to have forgotten that every month royalties from those books are deposited into my bank account. It's not much more than a couple cups of coffee, but it's something.
As I watched Jo on her journey over the two hours of the film, I could feel that little spark inside my belly again. The one I'd been waiting for. The one that truly sets my wild, creative spirit on fire. At the end of the movie, when Jo hugged her finished, printed novel in her arms with tears in her eyes, I cried right along with her. It made me remember that intense feeling when I'd held my own books. It's a feeling that's so hard to describe. It's a feeling I am hell-bent determined to feel again. I hardly slept that night — there was just this electric pulse surging through my body.
The next morning I sat on the couch looking at my mom's Little Tree, and I could feel her presence all around me. It was comforting, but there was also this weird dynamic in the air. I didn't have the normal sadness I've typically felt on the anniversary of her passing. I had a nervous energy about me, a real sense of peace and joy that I honestly couldn't explain.
"What, Mom? What are you trying to tell me?"
I looked over at the clipboard resting on the arm of the other couch, full of blank lined paper, my mechanical pencil stuck in the side. As a writer, it's a daunting task to look at a blank sheet of paper, and I'd been staring at that clipboard for a very long time, wondering if I'd ever find the spark to fill it up. I needed to find the courage again. In the old days, I'd talk to my dad about it, and he would give me that push. My "go-to guy" was gone. I'd have to find another way.
That was my revelation. I would have to dedicate myself and understand that where I was now was not going to be where I ended up — not if I could help it. If I couldn't find the courage to write for myself at the moment, then I would write for them. Because they would want me to. That would be my legacy. My words.
"Ohhh! Now I get it, Mom!"
I swear to God that Little Tree shone a little brighter as I reached over and picked up that clipboard. Just like Jo, I pulled the candle close and put the pencil tip to the paper. Then my mind exploded. I wrote and wrote and wrote deep into the night. Then I got up the next day, went to work, came home, and wrote and wrote and wrote some more. It was like someone pressed play and a movie started in my head, and it didn't stop until the end. I saw everything — the setting, the characters, the dialogue.
When I finally went to bed in the late hours of Monday night, I had a stack of papers containing an incredibly detailed outline and plot for the sequel to my first novel, Songs About Life. My hand was sore, but my heart was happy.
My heart is truly happy right now. I am excited about life again. The gates to my path forward have flung wide open and I'm so ready to get trucking. I don't know if what I write will be any good or if people will like it. I can't worry about those sorts of things. The minute you do, all momentum is lost.
So look out, world — this girl has got her mojo back. I'm feeling a whole lot of moxie with a heaping helping of sass. Sometimes it rains. Sometimes it even storms like a son of a bitch. But somewhere along the way, the sun will come out. I promise it will, and when it does, do everything you can to soak up those rays and fill your bucket to the brim.