Blog

I finally set up the front porch as a place where actual humans can hang out.

We’ve lived in this house for more than twelve years now, and the porch has NEVER, not once in that time, been a place to hang out in. There have been a few times when it hasn’t been a total hellhole, when I’ve had plants and a little chair and a bistro table in there, but honestly – who sits at a bistro table and writes? Someone at a bistro, that’s who. That’s the only person who does that.

But the porch never stayed neat. We have no storage shed or garage. We barely have closets in our 1926 bungalow. My clothes hang in less than two feet of space. My T-shirts and underwear are in a hutch. Our inflatable kayaks (yes, they’re rad and cheap) and all our camping gear lives in our bedroom closet.

Things like bicycles and tools had to live on the enclosed front porch. Things that we’ve left in the backyard either got dirty or they got disappeared (sometimes both!). Someday we hope to buy a shed of some sort, but they’re expensive.

Thus, the porch always filled with Stuff. It becomes what the Brits call a tip.

Let’s take a look, shall we? I would like to state for the record that this is EMBARRASSING. You’ve seen the inside of my house – while it can get messy, we really try to keep it in order. I love organization and tidiness! The house is usually ready to welcome unexpected guests. But those guests had to run this gauntlet:

That is: my sewing table (almost invisible), sewing chair, a sewing machine and a serger, boxes and boxes of books, several bags of old clothes to go the thrift store, a borrowed dog agility tube, a broken printer, a cat tree, some plants destined for the garden a floaty tube, and under that shit are two bikes!

Seriously, every time I’ve ever let a person into the house, I do a hand-waving spell as I led them in, chanting, Don’t mind the mess, we’re cleaning it up, keep moving, hurry through, nothing to see here. As if they wouldn’t notice they were walking through something from a Hoarders set.

About six weeks ago, I decided to reclaim the space. FINALLY.

I purged. I put everything up there that belonged somewhere else in the place where it went. I got rid of the sewing table since I rarely sew, and when I do, I can use the dining room table.

I gave up and hung the bikes on the bedroom wall. This was, literally, the reason we’d never made the porch into a comfy spot before: I couldn’t bear the thought of bikes in the house. Lala was fine with it, but I wasn’t. They’re UGLY. Gah. And our bedroom is tiny. Now that they’re in there, there’s only a hip-width space now to walk past the bed.

But you know what? In the same way I’d closed my eyes to the sheer hell of the porch, I can’t see the bikes already! Also, I gotta tell you, they’re really good for hanging clothes on. Even better than a treadmill!

And now this is the porch:

Yep! Totally heaven. I’m typing this blog post on the porch right now.

Both that comfy chair and the footstool were bargains of the century, neither of them over fifteen dollars. It’s looked like this for more than a month now, and none of the pretty plants have died. I can stretch the cord of the fan out here so that air blows on my knees as I write (important).

Best of all, I only write and plan and dream here. I don’t answer email. I don’t do marketing. This is for the good stuff.

FUN FACT: That green plant closest to the camera is the only fake one. I thought the tall grass looked nice. So does Waylon, the cat. He loves eating cat grass, and he loves eating this stuff. He’s not a smart cat. 

(And yes! I’m trying to blog every day for the two of you who still read blogs. I’ve loved it as a repository of memories, and I want to start it up again. I’ve said this before and failed – hoping it sticks this time. Said as if blogging were a piece of duct tape instead of (fun) work. Hmm.)

 

[This is from an upcoming collection of letters to writers, but it applies to all creative makers. This was written after my first Venice retreat, so more than a year ago now. If you’re interested in the weekly writer’s letter of encouragement, sign up here or below!]

Hello, writers!

I’m back from my writing retreat in Venice, which went spectacularly. The people who came were amazing, and together, we inspired the lids off each other. The tops of our souls were opened up, we looked inside each other, and we came away better for the seeing and hearing and writing we’d done. We’d write all morning and get lost in the Venice calli all afternoon and evening. The weather was perfect. Our pens were fresh and new. Our pages turned from blank to scribbled-upon. The water rose and fell and rose again, as our hearts did the same.

It was my first time leading a retreat.

I’ve done a lot of teaching, so I had that to rely on, but this was my first time being The Organizer (let’s not talk about the $11,000 wire transfer that was lost for three weeks before it was found, holy helen in a handbasin. My hair is whiter now).

And I loved every single minute of it.

Since then, though, I’ve done another writing retreat. Okay, the second one was just for one person, but she can be kind of a whiner, so I’m glad she enjoyed it. That retreat—of course—was for me. Seven days in Venice, mostly by myself, to rest, to write, and to wander. I wanted to fill the well. And boy, howdy, did I.

I got two book ideas out of it, and I filled a whole notebook. I wandered when and where I felt like it. I took notes on everything from the noise inside of my cluttered mind to the sound of the seagulls arguing over the fish market.

And every night, I’d look out the windows of my wee apartment onto the Grand Canal and think, “How did this happen to me?”

Luck, luck, nothing but luck, one voice answered me.

Hard work, another one said.

The truth is somewhere in the middle.

I’ve worked my ass off. And I’ve gotten really lucky in many, many ways.

But the one thing I know that’s been one of the biggest helps to me is this: You never feel like doing your heart’s work. (Okay, sometimes you do, but those times are very rare and can be relied on exactly as much as you rely on your Uncle Earl to not spit off the porch.)

I just watched a great TED talk on this, and the speaker says exactly what I’ve felt so many times:

We get in ruts because they’re comfortable. Auto-pilot is our default setting and it feels good. Doing something new/different is really hard.

And if you wait to feel like writing?

You won’t write.

You just won’t.

No one feels like writing. It’s hard almost every single time we sit down to do it. This very letter, in fact, I started this morning and gave up ten minutes into it. I walked the dogs, I recorded a podcast, and I took a nap before I made myself get back here to finish it.

You will not get what you want unless you make yourself move toward it.

The funny thing is, this applies to almost everything that’s outside our routine.

There was nothing I wanted more in the whole world than to lead a writing retreat in Venice. I would say it’s up there with those bucket-list items you don’t really think will ever happen to you, like sleeping in one of those clear-ceilinged hotels under the Northern Lights.

But I didn’t want to get on the plane to go. (When I was on the plane, however, I was nothing but excited.) I was overwhelmed thinking about how much work it would be. (When I was working, it was energizing, not exhausting.)

That first night, when I set out the prosecco and strawberries at our get-to-know-you meeting, I had to keep my knees locked to keep from running away. (When we were all chatting, of course, it was exciting and fun.)

I did not want to walk into our meeting room that first morning. (When we were writing together, of course, it was wonderful.)

I couldn’t wait until I felt like doing any of these things. I had to make myself. And the rewards were above anything I could have imagined.

I can’t wait until I feel like writing a book to write one. I have to make myself work, daily. Like the speaker says in TED talk linked above, we have five seconds to make that choice. Feel the impulse, move toward it within five seconds, or you’re going to slip back into your status quo.

Watch the video linked above, and see if it sparks anything for you.

When you’re done, you can watch my video-podcast of the latest How Do You Write episode, which I shot from the Venice apartment, in which I was still giddy even though I was in my last hour of being in my favorite city.

This Monday morning? Maybe don’t hit snooze on your alarm clock, or your life. Make yourself. See what happens.

Love and prosecco,

xo, Rachael