Rest when you get tired, don't quit
I spent May 2024 in Madeira, Portugal. The whole month, on my own. I booked the trip last winter when I noticed that my capacity for grace—what I call that precious space between trigger and reaction—was rapidly shrinking. Every word felt like a scrape. Every day rife with more demands on my already hobbled patience. The people I loved were suddenly too needy, like ravens circling, stealing shiny treasures from my yard, leaving me empty-handed and then still coming back for more.
I was shutting down. Because while those who are considered “too much” are encouraged to keep on being exactly who they are, everyone just assumes that the empaths in their life have an unlimited capacity to absorb the concerns, thoughts and pain of others. We don’t.
And because I was shutting down, so was the writing. Freelance work was also scarce. I had a persistent shoulder injury that wouldn’t settle down. So I had to ask myself that one devastating question we must all face now and again, are these signs from the universe that I shouldn’t be doing this? Or a test to see how badly I want it?
I ran away to an island to find out.
What did I do for a month? I read 8 books. I napped in the sun. I ate copious amounts of tropical fruit. I walked and hiked and rambled. I wrote snapshots for my Instagram posts. I journaled for two hours every night, the windows open to let in a breeze that could keep my pen moving. I also had some stunning conversations with friends and acquaintances about travelling solo, how to make travel more meaningful and how to trust yourself to find solutions in every situation. I did some creative writing and plot mapping, but mostly, I just kept wandering back to the ocean, several times a day, to marvel at the churning of the waves and let the sounds reset whatever was mucked up inside my brain.
Some other travellers I crossed paths with were baffled that I should spend so much time alone doing seemingly “nothing”. But as I gently explained each time, as a writer (and as a human being connected to those around her), you occasionally need to disconnect from everything and everyone in order to renew, refresh, refocus.
So here are the three things I (re)learned on this trip, and how each helped me recommit to my writing goals.
I have a community of people.
For all the friendships I’ve had to let go of in recent years, I have met new people who are more aligned with where I’m headed—and that’s in addition to the chosen family who have been with me for decades. Writing is a solo occupation for many, so it’s important to have people who (a) support your goals, (b) check in on you just because and (c) remind you of what an amazing human being you are when the rejections/delays/blockages are grinding you down.
It’s so easy to take What’s Working for granted when What Isn’t Working is overwhelming you. While in Portugal, if I was having a hard day, there was always someone I could reach through social media or with a quick call. Don’t buy into the tortured artist stereotype. Just as you are eager and ready to support your friends in their time of need, let them return the favour.
Boundaries are meant to be reviewed and reset, as needed.
You change, people change, relationships change, so don’t berate yourself if you have to redefine who gets access to you and when. I have set some pretty high goals for myself and so I need to be very intentional about when and how I engage. That doesn’t mean I’m turning into a misanthrope or that I’m less generous with my community. It just means that I have to count my self as part of that community, and see myself as someone worth taking care of and protecting. Or as one of my correspondents so beautifully put it:
The words will always be there when you need it.
This lesson was actually gifted to me some 20 years ago by Joe. I don’t see or speak to Joe anymore, but these words are legacy enough. In Portugal, I would sometimes wake up on the beach and notice the time, a little voice inside my head insisting that I should be writing, that I was wasting my time by not writing. And then I would hear Joe’s words again, and I knew in my bones that I didn’t need the words right then.
What I needed in Madeira was delighted senses, moments of joy, the simplicity of being and not doing, and letting my inner child marvel at the clouds. Whatever words I did need were used to detail all the discoveries and surges of bliss experienced throughout the day. I trusted that the novel writing would start up again when I was ready, when the scenes began to unfold in my imagination once more and words would be needed to record their exquisite complexity.
I’ve been back for some 10 days now and just yesterday I started querying again. Found a poetry contest that I have a submission idea for. I need the words now and they are coming back slowly, giving me ample time to set them down on paper, not rushing me, but whispering so delicately in my ear that I get a trill of excitement as I pull the notebook towards me.