writing my own redemption arc

there's always a chance for a do-over

I always know how long it’s been since I’ve worked on my manuscript because my computer helpfully lets me know how long it’s been since I backed it up.

(Because clearly I only remember to do a back-up when I’ve been working on my manuscript. Yes, this is bad. I know this.)

So, yeah, it had been a while.

You can see from the image below, that, after not touching it since the beginning of October, I dipped into the manuscript at the end of November…

Somehow, many days have passed since then. Not quite long enough for my computer to start nagging me, but long enough to feel like I’ve dropped the thread again.

I had so many plans, my friends.

So. Many. Plans.

I had planned on “doing” Preptober to get myself organized to re-start Elfric’s story for NaNoWriMo. I assumed I’d have finished the latest round of edits in Hazel’s by the end of October so would let it rest while I finished the first complete draft of Elfric’s during the merry mayhem of NaNo. That would set me up to do the final draft of Hazel and start getting ready to publish/release in April of 2024.

Pfft.

I’m not entirely sure what happened - other than me not doing either of those things.

Instead, I packed away my writing notebooks and started painting.

I painted because it meant I didn’t have to think. My particular brand of painting involves not thinking, only feeling and making intuitive choices. There’s no planning, only doing the next right thing, as prodded by that still, small voice that’s always there but gets hard to hear amid the ambient noise of life.

I shifted the furniture in my study, moving a bookshelf out so that I could hang canvases and paper on the wall to better facilitate the pushing of paint that was making me so deliriously happy. I moved from piece to piece, having several on the go at the same time — so that I could sidestep my thinking brain when it started to interfere. My study became a glorious clutter of paint pots and brushes, scattered sketchbooks and wadded up paper towel.

glorious chaos…though that’s a fairly tidy shot

I started painting because, while I was grappling with the very persistent and nagging question of whether I even wanted to be writing, I heard, very clearly, a voice that said “you need to paint”.

So I did.

And while I was painting, I avoided reading or watching anything relating to writing of any kind. I basically opted out of all writerly content, even from the people I faithfully read/watch/listen to. Instead, I watched my favourite artists on YouTube, I listened to art podcasts, I scrolled art instagram.¹ All I knew is that I wanted to immerse myself in art and stay as far away as possible from anything to do with writing.

Until one day, it had been over a month since I even considered writing and I wasn’t even sad or guilty or feeling as if I’d let myself or someone else down.

I felt a sense of freedom that I hadn’t felt in a very, very long time.

The thing is, I was painting long before I was writing.

It was the mid-2000s (maybe late 2000s ? - time is an accordion collapsing in on itself) when I first began and I fell violently and passionately in love with it. I took a class run by Connie Solera called BIG and it was intuitive painting on huge pieces of Bristol paper. I remember taping three or four of them together to create these gigantic canvases and painting my feelings in vivid colour. It was a wild time and incredibly transformative. I still count some of the women I met in that class as dear friends. It was then that I first caught a glimpse of the possibility of building a life around my creativity. I’d never felt so sure of anything in a long time.

Then the internet broke me.

That’s dramatic, but not entirely incorrect, though to be fair, it was the misinformation being peddled on the internet that broke me. I fell, hook, line and sinker, into the pain-point trap and found myself trying to contort into a way of being that simply wasn’t me, that didn’t align with my values and certainly didn’t account for my temperament. It was devastating and demoralizing and it stirred up all manner of self-doubt.

So I gave up. I stopped painting and started writing instead.²

Then the whole cycle happened again.

More or less.

Then I spent some time being broken and now I’m painting again.

a detail of a recent painting…these little houses keep showing up, sometimes with feet. I think it speaks to the recurring themes of ‘home’ and ‘belonging’ that also show up in my stories.

I’ve come to understand a couple of things in this time of not-thinking-and-yet-also-thinking. Firstly, that painting needs to stay a permanent part of my creative practice. I sometimes think it might even become the predominant element some day, though I don’t like to assume anything anymore. I have so much yet that I want to learn and am in no rush to establish hard expectations for myself. Even so, painting helps me keep my perspective and it’s teaching me deeply important lessons that are transferable to pretty much every facet of my life.

Secondly, I’ve learned that I’m much better at not focusing on outcomes with my painting than I am with my writing. Whatever the reason, it’s important information to note and worth exploring further. Perhaps it’s because I’m not really sharing my art right now (though I occasionally post to my instagram)³ but I think it’s also because my mindset around creativity is shifting radically — a process that started well over a year ago — and now that’s starting to leak into my writing life.

Painting, I think, has been the final catalyst in the healing of some very old and very deep wounds and false narratives that I just haven’t been able to shake. I suspect I needed to feel my way through all of that stuff, rather than think my way through and painting, rather than writing, allows me to do that.⁴

A few weeks ago, I saw a post from Becca Syme about how, as writers, we are supremely well set-up to write our own redemption arcs. After all, we write them all the time for our characters. Redemption arcs presuppose the idea that everything (and everyone) is salvageable and that nothing is ever too far gone to be saved. I kind of really like that as a philosophy of art/life. 😉

I’m choosing to believe that yes, all of this is salvageable: the neglected manuscript and abandoned paintings, the obliterated timeline and the fallen-through plans. I choose to believe that despite the false starts and wrong-turns, the delays and the doubts — many of them stemming from those old wounds and then the newer ones inflicted by a lack of self-knowledge — that it can all be reimagined in a way that works for my storyline.

The last time that I declared “This is going to be my year” it was 2020 and while, at first glance, 2020 was a bit of a shit-show, it was also the year that I (re) published my Sea Glass Trilogy.

So not a total bust, then.

Dare I say it?

2024, I’m looking at you.😎

How about you…what has 2023 taught you? How are you feeling as you look ahead to 2024?

Things are shifting here in my little corner of the Substackaverse, so you might notice some changes over the next while, including the name of this letter. I’m realizing that there’s far more that wants writing about than writing books, so apologies if that’s all you’re here for. I’ve tried to niche myself for that last time. What can I say? I contain multitudes. Besides, it’s all connected…😉

If you do stick around — thanks — I look forward to writing to/for you again soon. 🥰

1. Not really. I mean, I dabble a bit…when I remember and can be arsed.

2. This was actually a long, drawn-out process with years in between the two.

3. Yes, I’ve gone back to IG, sort of. To be fair, I only went back to look at other people’s art and keep up with friends, but I do post from time to time…when I remember and can be arsed.

4. Additionally, I think painting connects me to Spirit in a different, more direct way than writing (likely because I’m not thinking and therefore getting in the way) and that connection is a really important element of my creative practice.