Filling The Well

Wendall--every other Thursday

I turned in a book on Monday.

 

I don’t know whether my experiences in the days after a submission are common or not, but this is what it's like for me. I ping back and forth between relief, exhaustion, hope, and panic, as I wait to see whether my editor likes it and how much additional work, whether incidental or monumental, will need to be done.

 

Once I press "Send," I feel free and lucky for a moment or two, or maybe even an hour.

 

Done and dusted!

 

Then  I remember all the things I’ve put off and all the promises I’ve made to myself and others in the run up to the deadline. And feel more like this.

 

Total collapse and denial.

 

Within hours of making the mistake of announcing the book’s submission on Facebook, my inbox is full of reminders about dinners, drinks, Zooms, and walks with friends I’ve neglected, PDFs of books I agreed to blurb, a million questions and requests from students and consulting clients, and in this case, since the book had an April deadline, an email from our accountant, asking if we are, in fact, planning on using them for 2023?

 

 

Suddenly, all the things I promised myself once the book was done—sleep, exercise, time with my husband, time to hit the cinema or watch thirty-five streaming shows I’ve missed, a joyful reread of all of Raymond Chandler, healthy eating and drinking and a de-cluttering of my desktop—now seem impossible. 

 

Sometimes I feel I’ve lived my whole life thinking, “if I can just get through.. (fill in the blank)...I will be okay.” But somehow, the “fill in the blank” part never ends.

 

I know that, ultimately, I'll be thrilled to see the friends I’ve missed so much, that seventy-five percent of the shows people have told me to watch will be, as my English husband would say, bollocks, and that my new ‘to-do’ list will not be as daunting as it appears in the first twenty-four hours after my deadline. I will navigate and negotiate all the requests and reminders, as I always have in the past.

 

But the bigger question remains—when you have spent a year creating, not only an entire book, but all the guest blog posts and one page synopses that must follow, and you have put out the psychic energy necessary for all the obligatory book store appearances, panels, interviews, and Zooms required, how do you reignite the energy and inspiration to do it all over again?

 

Reading and watching films can inspire me, but because almost all of my personal and “day job” work for the last forty years has been either writing films, television scripts, or novels, and evaluating other people’s writing, at this point, I’m most inspired by other kinds of artistic expression.

 

So for me, one of the answers is museums—the art and the physical spaces themselves. I’ve written posts about MONA in Tasmania and the Cast Iron Gallery in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London because, those are places that spark new ideas or perspectives, that make me want to write again.  

 

This week, I wanted to share a few images from museums on the South Bank of Brisbane. These spaces have “filled my well” when I’ve been in between projects and I visit them whenever I’m lucky enough to be in Queensland—The Queensland Museum, the Queensland Art Gallery (QAG), and Gallery of Modern Art (GOMA). All of them are bunched together, and look back at the central business district.

 

View from the Southbank of Brisbane

The Queensland Art Museum welcomes you with a fountain guarded by pelicans, seen here from outside and inside the museum.

Looking toward the bridge in the picture above.

Seen through the downstairs gallery.

There is more water inside, in a central gallery which changes exhibitions frequently.

 

The gallery during my visit in 2019.

The gallery in 2018.

The museum holds some older pieces, but primarily focuses on modern and Aboriginal art. 

 

I'm equally inspired by The Queensland Museum, which focuses on both science and natural history. I love the way this museum is laid out, as many items are encased in glass or suspended in liquid and the whole natural history floor is an art installation in itself.

 

 

So, taxes, coffees with friends, and museums, that's where I'm headed, at least until I get my editor's notes...

--Wendall

Digital White-Out

Sujata Massey

When the snow fell last weekend, I welcomed it, not just for its beauty, but the way it stops time.

I grew up in Minnesota, where children are hardwired to appreciate the beauty of snow and also to expect it as a normal rhythm of the winter, rather than a natural disaster. As an adult I am able to admit that snow is not just fun and games. I can't decide what is more treacherous; the flat packed snow that forms a shiny, slick surface; the thick ice lurking under snow; or the thick salt crystals scattered over the sidewalks that sting my dogs’ paws.

Even though snow trips me up, I still love it.

Snow only falls a few times each winter in Maryland—but often it’s a storm, rather than a casual sprinkling. Supposedly it's because of the freezing air coming down from Antarctic meeting up with the warmer Atlantic. And when we have snowstorms in Baltimore, we never have  enough plows. In bad winters, the whole Eastern Seaboard runs out of salt and sand. In my city, the protocol is to concentrate on freeways and major roads while the storm is ongoing, and to address the rest of the city later. Or not. 

Last Sunday, when Baltimore was snowed in, a tremendous quiet descended over my world. I bundled up and went for a walk around nine in the morning with my husband. The streets and lanes had only a few car tracks. On my way back, I slipped on one of the slick snow patches on an unplowed street, but no lasting harm was done.

Unspoiled snow gives the feeling of open time. It is the opposite of an ordinary day dominated by rapid-fire texts and emails demanding answers. The snow seems to wipe all of that out.

This weekend’s snow came just before I started reading a book called Deep Work written by Georgetown professor Cal Newport. Dr. Newport examines what a lot of us already know: that toggling between different kinds of intellectual activities leads to a poorer quality of life and produced work. Using studies and examples of scientists, psychologists, tycoons--as well as his own hard-fought academic writing accomplishments--he talks about the need to limit shallow work that distracts from the deep snowbank of joyful, rewarding work.

I've become very interested and inspired by this theory of deep work, though I cannot of course end my daily life as a person raising children and dogs, helping with my husband's business, and keeping in touch with readers. But I know that I do many more distracting activities now than twenty years ago, when I was starting my fiction career. Now I understand why focusing was easier.

One of Dr. Newport's suggestions for managing smaller job-related responsibilities  is to address them in batches rather than every day. For instance, I could write a couple of Murder is Everywhere posts over one day or two days and then I'd be ready for the month. In that same week of managing small writing assignments, I could write my monthly author newsletter and cue up some Instagram posts. And in the other weeks of the month--at least three!--I could immerse myself in 1921 Bombay, the very un-snowy setting of my current novel. 

So I've got an idea. Regardless of what the weather predictions are, a metaphoric storm is headed to my house tomorrow morning.

It will be a white-out from the digital world. I aim to concentrate on my neglected next novel, which means I can answer email just thrice daily. And podcasts, radio and TV will have to wait two weeks as well. My mind doesn't need any more jumbling.

I intend to listen hard enough in the silence that I can hear snowflakes fall.

One of the last emails Sujata read before starting the Digital White-Out carried the good news she's been nominated for a Lefty award for Best Historical Mystery of 2018. The awards will be voted on at the Left Coast Crime Convention in Vancouver this March.