Getting over the finish line

Even if you have to crawl

If you’ve been around here at the newsletter for more than a minute, you know that in addition to writing this weekly missive, managing a house, raising a few kids, and maintaining a full-time job, I’m writing a book.

Even as a single mom, doing all of the above things (plus all the other things I didn’t list because no one, least of all me, wants to contemplate my to-do list) doesn’t make me unusual. Maybe endeavoring to write a book on top of all that makes me a little special (or a little crazy), but probably not even that qualifies me, as witnessed by the endless churn of books that appear on the shelves of bookstores.

Even with all of those books on shelves, though, I have to believe there are infinitely more books that are stuffed in a drawer somewhere, partially written. Or shoved in a closet. Or maybe they never got past, as writer Ann Patchett refers to it, the perfect, bejeweled, Tourmaline butterfly stage in someone’s mind.

Or maybe, just as an example, they never made it past the 2/3rds drafted mish-mash of Google docs on someone’s laptop that’s been accumulating for nearly three years now. [Ahem.]

Meaning, it’s not the writing that’s the unusual part, but the finishing.

That last one is (obviously) my book, which by this past spring had started to feel like an unfortunate boyfriend I had to drag into every conversation so that well-meaning folks could dutifully ask how he was doing and I could smile maniacally, insisting he was “Great!'“, while secretly hoping he would step into traffic. By accident, of course. I’m not a total monster.

At least then I could throw my hands up philosophically and heave an internal sigh of relief that I didn’t have to find the fortitude or character to just end it between us properly.

Life happens, y’know? It’s so sad.

I’m beginning to suspect this is, on a certain level, why I started building a cabin. Yes, it’s a step towards the dream my son and I have of developing our land. Yes, when it’s going well it gives me a sense of accomplishment that is hard to come by these days. Not to mention hope for the future, which can feel like a dry well since, say, Trump’s first election (and most definitely his second).

But there are infinite levels of significance to most things, especially the swing-for-the-fences type of choices we make, and I’m realizing this project was just expensive enough, and just connected enough to other people’s dreams that I’d have to actually finish (instead of slinking quietly away when it got to be too much).

I needed to remind myself what it is to finish something. Not to make it perfect, or get accolades for it. Just to bring it over the line.

I don’t know about you, but so much of the daily work I do is repetitive and seemingly endless- the care work, the house work, the paid administrative work. Even after all these decades of adulthood, I still keep hoping the clouds will part and Monty Python butt trumpets will sound every time I pay a bill on time, clean the refrigerator, or manage a thorny conversation with a kid or colleague with some grace and mercy. Sadly, adulthood involves no butt trumpets.

It’s also not lost on me that all of this repetitive work I do, both paid and not, is feminine-coded. It’s just what women do, right? Take care of everyone while constantly monitoring what needs doing, thus keeping the wheels ever turning on the social bus.

How many women have the time, psychic energy, or resources in the midst of all that endless labor to tackle big creative projects that are entirely self-motivated and expressive?

I remember encountering the work of Alice Howell when my children were small. Howell was a trained Jungian psychotherapist, but put everything on hold to raise her children. She only began writing lyrical and deeply insightful books in her late fifties once they were all grown and out of the house. Reading her work, I looked around at the toys scattered all over the floor, the laundry piled in the corner, and the dinner that needed cooking, and thought, Maybe someday I’ll also climb out of all this and write like Alice.

Here I am, all these years later. My bio-kids are, as of this weekend, finally both moving out. My bonus kid is starting college later this month. My niece is grown (enough), if still at home, that she doesn’t need me to actively manage her constantly. The trick now is to remember— how to throw everything I have into something simply because it fires my imagination, unapologetically rearrange my life around it, and stick with it from beginning to whatever end gives me the most satisfaction.

It’s been decades since I’ve done that.

Last weekend, my son Otto and I got to the part of the cabin build where we’re attaching siding to the vertical walls— front, back, and around the two dormers. This requires cutting a variety of weird shapes and angles, which ideally have to line up with each other seamlessly.

If you’re not one of my paid folks who watched my video diary of the vacation portion of this build, you wouldn’t know that I’m shit at geometry. Or that, overall, I’m functioning at the very outer edge of my building knowledge and capacity.

I HAVE ONLY A VAGUE IDEA WHAT I’M DOING, in other words. I’m running solely on family history (my dad was a builder), sheer doggedness, and a hard-won acceptance of imperfection.

So, the first siding day didn’t go well. We got a few things done. Not neatly, not square, but done. Then we gave up, tarped it, and drove away.

Now it’s raining, will be raining on and off for the entire week, and I’m mostly relieved at the excuse to step away. Because I’m full of self-doubt, overwhelmed at the idea of another day stumbling through it, and really wishing that AI would do something useful for once, like finish building my cabin for me.

But AI isn’t that useful, and it’s my project to make happen (dammit).

I’ll take this rainy weekend off to do some laundry, help my kids move, and otherwise show up for all the other bits of my life. Then I’ll get back at it— self-doubt, overwhelm, and all.

That’s how this finishing things works, I’m remembering.

Unlike the cabin, if I don’t finish the book, no one will be affected, or possibly even care. My dearest ones want good things for me, including my growth as a creative human, but (goddess bless them) they are going to love me no matter what I do. Or don’t.

I have no contract I have to honor. No advance to justify. No editor or agent cheering me on, or chivvying me to meet my deadline. It’s just me, a list of scenes to get to the end, and a blank screen.

Hello, Sheer Doggedness. Nice to see you again. Did you bring Acceptance of Imperfection? We’re going to need her.

To be clear, there are times where the better point of valor is to quit. Over the course of my life, there are any number of things I should have quit (jobs and relationships chief among them) long before I did. No valor for me!

A few times, I’ve managed to bow out of things gracefully and without regret. I’m prouder of those quits than most anything I’ve ever finished.

Quitting with integrity, or to get back to your integrity, is a real thing

But this isn’t like that. This is just me needing to know I can find the story, do the work to the best of my ability, and get us over the line.

Otherwise, I will be out of my integrity and regret it for the rest of my days. [SIGH.]

[I’m not crying. You’re crying.]

Now, though, I have to finish this cabin. It’ll be wonky and weird, but as long as it’s weather-tight before winter, I’ll feel like I did what I needed to remember I could. By then I’ll be eager to reunite with my book draft, hopefully. Or determined, anyway, to get us all the way to the end.

What have you finished? What are you working on finishing?