It’s only Tuesday and yet . . .

/ RCRuiz

Not that I post with any kind of regularity or schedule, but here I am on a Tuesday. I’ve enrolled in a five session course on portraits with acrylics and the first session went pretty well. The advantage of acrylics is the drying time and how it’s much easier to take it home to continue work on it. Compared to pastels where the work has to be carefully transported, acrylics are easy. I’m enjoying these courses which are in series of five sessions each time focusing on a particular medium as I feel like I want to understand how different mediums work.

I do enjoy portraits a lot and I want to try and see what different things I can do with it once I get the basics down.

When I was a young girl, my mother once showed my notebook of writings to the daughter of a friend of hers. I think my Mom was proud that I was writing, but I was quite embarassed because her friend’s daughter was (at that time) already playing the violin for a big orchestra. I was like: Eh…Mom. Why?

But instead of dismissing my work, this young woman looked at it carefully, then she said something to me which I’ve carried around much like a puzzle that I keep trying to unfold.

“An artist,” she said. “Can see beyond the leaf.”

I never got around to asking her what she meant because soon after that this violinist went abroad to play with other orchestras and our paths never crossed again.

I think of her words every now and then, though.

Today, those words came bubbling up again and I thought of the following reply:

“Beyond the leaf is a world (maybe more than one)

Lives are lived. Not all are told or written down in story.

Not one is insignificant.“

To you who read these words, may you be surprised by small moments of daily joy. Thank you for stopping by.

Here’s one of my favorite exercises from this week. On a background of sennelier soft pastel, an impression of branch and leaf.

Breathe in, Breathe out

/ RCRuiz

February turned out to be a more challenging month as the flu struck and just as I was feeling better, shingles happened. I had this idea that I could get through shingles with just paracetamol, but after enduring a night with no sleep and pain that I can’t describe, I caved and asked my doctor for stronger pain relief. Thankfully, my doctor prescribed pain relief quickly and I have been able to sleep through the night which accounts for why I no longer need the pain relief. I do have this incredible itch where the shingles outbreak happened and a burning sensation pretty much like when you have a bad sunburn.

Recovery from shingles is a process, but I’m glad I’m able to come upstairs to the workroom and do some art practice as well as a little bit of writing.

I was inspired quite a bit by some of the work that I saw when I visited the art fair and had a conversation with an artist who was doing some live painting. That conversation made me think about my own approach to art and art making.

During our conversation, the artist told me that what’s important is to find your own gestures and your own signature. What is it about your art that makes you the artist that you are? Every artist has a signature–not the name you sign, but it’s in the language that exists between the artist and the blank canvas/page.

I think about this conversation as I draw without having a particular goal. I draw repetitions of shapes as a way of tuning in to what am I feeling, what am I thinking, and what is going on in my body and in my spirit today.

Breathe in, breathe out.

In today’s world where everyone seems to want to rush towards a goal or to achieve something or to become someone, being in the moment frees us of all those stresses. When we are free from those stresses of becoming something, we can listen to what our bodies tell us.

Small circles, gridlines, spirals, repetitive mark making and repetitive movements. All of these things are practices that ground us in the body and in the moment. And being grounded allows us to transcend to where we can see beyond the mundane.

I’m stopping here for today.

To you who reads this, thank you for dropping by. Blessings and peace.

Finally, an update…

/ RCRuiz / 2 Comments

It’s taken time for me to get around to updating this online journal. There was a season when I felt as if I was inside a time capsule, watching the world go by, observing, doing, moving in some direction but always within that capsule. I had my last treatment right before December and since that time the capsule enclosure has become quite porous. At times, it feels as if a wild and eager rush pushes outward from inside me–a wanting to do and to go and to undertake so many things.

My oncologist says: we don’t know. We can’t say or predict how things will turn out. But the chemo has done what it’s supposed to do, and for now I have been moved to the list of people who are under observation.

It took me a good number of minutes to process what my oncologist said. I keep going back to that moment and checking in with myself. There are still things in my body–a nodule and a lymph node are mentioned in the scan report–things that can’t be easily removed through surgery. And yet, my oncologist isn’t worried. All I can feel is relief that chemo has ended.

I think to myself: There are more people walking around with things in their bodies, living lives and just being and doing and staying in the now. The length of our life spans is not something we can control, so why worry about that?

If you can let go of worrying, my physiotherapist says, then it’s already a win.

Why worry about something I can’t control? I reply. This, I can control. I can train my body to be physically fit. I can work to become stronger. Instead of obsessing about weight, I make sure to eat a balanced diet. As for the rest, I leave it in the hands of God. (So very Pinoy. Yes.)

I’ve decided that I’m going to keep living and keep doing things that I love and things that give me joy. I’ve decided to hold on to faith and to this knowledge that we do what we can do in the time allotted to us and life is about living one day at a time.

It’s going to take some time to find a new balance and I am thankful that time is being made so that I can find that new balance. Where people talk about spoons, our physiotherapists talk about buckets. You only have so much energy in your bucket and some things will deplete your bucket quicker than other things. You can empty your bucket in one go, but recovery is better when your bucket isn’t completely empty at the end of the day. Brain work, thinking work, social interactions, new situations can empty your bucket faster than doing the laundry and vacuuming your house. You’ve been in a space of time where for a long while, you’ve had to do all you can to just get through it. Once you’re no longer in treatment, it’s tempting to succumb to demands we imagine are being placed on us. But, it’s okay to say: no, I cannot or no, I don’t have the energy for that. It’s okay to pick and choose and to say: I can only do one or two things in a day.

And then, my physiotherapist says with a laugh. Of course, it’s in pushing ourselves that we discover our limits. And once we find those limits, we know how far we can go. If we go about it the right way, those limits expand as time passes.

I think of how the state of being in a limbo is one that allows us to become rooted in the present. In this now. In this moment. Tomorrow will come. Tomorrow’s worries are for tomorrow. Today, I am doing what I can to the best of my ability. I am here in this moment and I am thankful.

I didn’t have the brain space to write about LIMBO, but our December celebration was lovely.

Blessings and peace to you who read and may 2025 bring good things your way. Maraming Salamat for stopping by.

A note for readers who might be going through cancer treatment: if it’s possible and doable, oncological physiotherapy is a big help. I am thankful for the person who posted about it on a forum somewhere because it’s not standard at the hospital I go to. I found out that it’s standard for some hospitals though.

Time

/ RCRuiz / 2 Comments

A dear friend recommended Abraham Joshua Heschel’s work to me and I’ve been reading out of The Sabbath and thinking about time. Heschel’s work is beautiful. It’s thought provoking–mysterious and deep and also accessible and relatable. More than that, it is moving.

I think of time as I prepare to go to the hospital for my second chemo infusion in what’s called a second line treatment. I think of time when the doctor tells me that we are buying time. I think of time and how each of us comes into this world not knowing just how much we have of it and how even when facing a disease like cancer, there is no way of measuring or saying–this is how much time or this is the only time you have got. Science can get us so far, but the measure of our time in this world is not something anyone can predict. I’m saying this because my mother was told she had one year to live when she was 46 years old and here we are…my mother will turn 87 this year.

And yes, it’s true that it’s possible to extrapolate based on data, but even data is no guarantee because there are always other factors that might come into play. The truth is, we all hope for more time, but the most important time we’re getting is now and as my mother always tells me: just live today.

I remember back in 2023, when they told me the cancer was not gone after all. Back then, the numbers were quite frightening and the feeling of precariousness was strong. Because of where the tumors were located, I was also in quite a bit of discomfort.

Today, where I had radiation, things are quiet. My doctor sent me on vacation with a smile on her face saying: you can go through the 10 weeks without medication and when you return we’ll start on treatment again. And in those 10 weeks, I walked a lot and climbed a lot and did muscle training and felt like I felt 10 years ago. I’m thankful for the muscle training now because chemo does a number on the body and the more fit you are physically, the better you are able to withstand treatment (that’s what I keep hearing). In the week when I get chemo, I don’t feel all too happy. I don’t know if I’m hungry or nauseous, I don’t know what to do about all the things I’m feeling. I don’t want to take the anti-nausea meds because of the headaches, but I also don’t want to be throwing up, so I take the nausea meds anyway because they do help me get through the week.

But the week passes. I wake up one morning and my stomach feels settled. I go out and take a walk. I go back to my physiotherapy class. I meet up with loved ones. I do things. And thankfully, this time, I can read and write.

I think of time and eternal time and time that is in the hands of the creator and I think of how it’s possible to see beyond now. To understand that there is a timeline running alongside the now that I see and that timeline stretches and branches into different directions and different possibilities and how we are limited only to the extent that we allow ourselves to be limited. There is enough time even when people tell us there is no time. There is time even when the data says there might not be enough time. There is time because time is not something that we can command or hold fast or measure or make secure. What happens in a second can be of infinite significance even if we don’t see it just yet.

A little while back, my brother asked me what my prognosis was. I really couldn’t say because my doctor couldn’t say. But the more I think on it, the more I wonder if it’s all that important. Even when I am writing a story, the outcome may not be in my control because I can only bring my characters to the end of a particular story but beyond that story possibilities branch out. The work of change is never done. It is constantly in motion and so what I can do is simply trust that all the small movements being done in the present will tell and count towards a future that’s better for those who come after this story is finished.

I am cradled in love and lifted by grace and always thankful for the hope that I see even when the world is chaotic and muddled and filled with so much chaos.

Agyamanac Unay for passing by. May you too be cradled and lifted in love.

art and narrative

/ RCRuiz

Last Thursday, I moderated a panel discussion on the Fractal Art of Julius Horsthuis at NXT Museum. It was quite an interesting event as not only was the artist on panel, but we also had Dr. Margriet van der Heijden on panel–a physicist who specialised in particle physics at CERN. I’d never thought all that much about fractals before–I mean, if someone said the word fractal, I would understand that they’re talking about self-similar patterns which we often see in nature, but I probably wouldn’t be able to tell you what it is in-depth. For math people, talk about fractals will often lead to thinking about the Mandelbrot equation, but did you know that before Mandelbrot, there was the Julia? (Yep. I learned all these things while doing my prep.)

I also found myself thinking on the question of what makes art. What do we mean when we say a thing is a work of art? And what function do we ascribe to art? Julius Horsthuis says that his focus on Fractals lies in the fact that he hasn’t gotten bored by it yet.

For Julius, documenting or discovering the 3D worlds opened up by the input of various equations is what makes it fascinating for him. He talks about the films Baraka and Samsara which don’t follow a conventional narrative and how these films were an inspiration for the 3D films that he makes.

I certainly think that experiencing this kind of art by being in a space where you are surrounded by it is a different one from that of seeing it onscreen (on your laptop, your pc or your television). There is a mesmeric quality to it, but at the same time there is (as one of the audience said) a feeling of loneliness. Perhaps because there is an absence of characters interacting with the landscape. (Perhaps the person in the space becomes a character interacting with the landscape or could it be the maker himself?)

I watched Baraka and thought about that difference (the absence of humans in Julius’s work) and found myself thinking of how a landscape changes with the presence of humans. As Margriet said to me later on: Humans are not fractals.

I do like the concept of non-conventional narration and how it ties in with how story doesn’t have to conform in order for it to matter.

Later, Julius speaks of how the absence of narration is deliberate, although as he explores the possibilities of bringing his creations to VR, he realises that the absence of narration may not be conducive to people engaging with the art, particularly if they come to the experience for the first time.

Is story an experience? Is art an experience?

I think about these as I deliberate on my own work and process. I think of how as writers of story, there is a certain expectation arising from centuries of stories being told. What happens when story doesn’t conform to expectation? What happens when a story simply wants to show a world in the same way a documentary maker would show the world?

But is showing the world enough? We could argue that the majority of science fiction and fantasy books are about showing the world.

Piranesi, one of the books I read when I finally got my reading brain back, feels very much like that. It’s basically Susanna Clarke showing us the world Piranesi occupies. Piranesi’s voice compels us to come along and see and learn more about the world they live in. The cast of characters is barely there, but we’re seeing the world through Piranesi’s eyes and it’s beautiful and fascinating and a lot of times it is lonely. Piranesi eventually conforms to a story expectation but then not really and the feeling of fascination remains long after the book is finished.

Does Horsthuis’ art work in the same way? I can’t help but wish I had thought to ask how exploring the world of Fractals has changed or enriched the artist as a person. I’m not even sure if this is what the artist is after. Does it even matter? Should our work change us or reflect us or enrich us even? Does a work have to mean something in order for it to have value? Is fascination and sense of wonder enough?

In the light of discussions around the lives of creators, to what extent does the character and life of a creator influence our engagement with the work that they create? And can we separate things made from the people who make them? (Probably something for another post…my brain tends to wander off in tangents and this is my blog. 🙂 )

I think there is room in the world for different kinds of artmaking because every form of creation will find its own audience and will speak to audiences in different ways. Thursday’s event reminded me of that. It reminded me of the beauty of physics, the endless mystery of the world we live in and that joyful feeling that arises when people come together with a desire to create bridges of understanding and knowledge.

If you’re in Amsterdam, I would recommend checking out NXT Museum (check out what’s on exhibit first as it varies). Not only is Julius Horsthuis’s Fractal Art on display, but they also have a fascinating exhibition by the postdigital art group Random International.

Blessings and peace to you who read this. Daghang salamat for passing by.

The joy of LIMBO

/ RCRuiz

On Sunday, we marked the close of this season with LIMBO and the close of our partnership with FramerFramed. Framer Framed has been home to LIMBO since the first workshop took place in 2022. When we start up again in September, it will be at a new place.

Sunday was a celebration with food, music, dance and presentations from different participants in the group. As part of the celebration, we put together a mini-exhibition to show off what we had done together during the LIMBO sessions.

Looking back at the season, I am thankful to be part of this space. Bearing witness to how participants take ownership of the space, makes me feel incredibly happy. We had a mini-workshop on self-defense (more practical than I had imagined), a workshop on Iranian dance, and a small open stage with a q&a with one of LIMBO’s budding artists, as well as sharing of poetry from a budding writer, and also a sharing of journey reflections.

Sahar, who is a friend of LIMBO, made a wonderful comforting dish called Ash Reshte. I am googling recipes to see if we can try to make it home ourselves.

When I see how participants are flourishing, it makes my heart expand. I think of one of LIMBO’s participants sharing with us how they’d forgotten what they had in their self, until they came to LIMBO. They remembered that they were an artist, that they had this capacity and capability not just to make art, but also to share it with others.

In conversation with some visitors who expressed a wish to create a space like LIMBO, we talked about what it means to establish such a space and how we need to change the way we look at organising and leadership. How at the beginning, we need to change our mindset from: I am helping you to I want to serve and understand your needs and I want to discover how to support you so you can see the power that you already have inside you. To say: “this space is created by all of us together and belongs to all of us together and my voice doesn’t carry more weight than yours, but all our voices are equal in weight”. That also requires a different kind of seeing and a different kind of discipline.

Spaces like LIMBO allow us to be vulnerable. In such a space where we don’t need to fear being judged, where we don’t have to be perfect, we can become as we were meant to be. No pressure. No “you must be”, but simply free.

We break bread together, we share our joys and sorrows, we laugh and we dance, and we give thanks even as we acknowledge that life is challenging and hard.

Blessings and peace to you who read this. Agyamanac Unay for stopping by.

On my mind today

/ RCRuiz

One of the marks of a good leader, my father said, was the capacity to encourage others to make full use of their talents and to make others grow into their gifts. It’s not about having the loudest voice or being the most visible, it’s about thinking on how we can help others discover and become their best selves.

My Mom also used to tell me that the sign of being a good teacher was when your student outgrows you and no longer needs you.

I think about these things because one of the writers who came to attend the six week workshop I gave for Other Futures (and who I’ve been mentoring a bit since then), was accepted to the Clarion Workshop. It is quite a milestone moment and I feel like a proud mama bird watching a fledgling spread their wings.

Last Saturday, I got to do one of the things that brings me joy. I got to work with young people again. This is a thank you to Lana Jelenjev and the Neurodiversity Foundation for inviting me to give a workshop to young people between the ages of 11-17 as part of celebrating Neurodiversity pride day.

There’s something about the way young people approach the act of creating together that makes me so hopeful. I saw the will to encourage one another, the willingness to compromise and make space for each other, and the readiness to help when the other person gets stuck. As Lana’s husband said afterwards, we could all learn a lot just by watching the kids work together.

It makes me think of how we all have that capacity to create and work together within us. Maybe it’s just that some of us didn’t know that we could just go about it, or we’ve been so programmed with this idea of individualism (mine is mine and yours is yours), we’ve been trained to think so much in boxes that we forget the joy of collaborating. And then, there is this soul-killing thing which I’ve sometimes observed in the grown up world where people think the important thing is to be better than someone else, win the most awards, have the most fans, make the most money, sell the most books…that sort of thing.

Life and art and the creation of story are not a competition. It’s not about having the best words or the coolest ideas, it’s about feeling safe enough to share what you love that make life and art and creation beautiful. What I loved about Saturday’s workshop was how I got to see young people bounce ideas off of one another in a space where they feel safe from being judged or found wanting, they just went ahead and talked about things they loved or were passionate about and they made space for each other to include those things in the worlds they were creating.

This method of creating together is a practice not only in worldbuilding but also a practice in bridge-building, in compromise and collaboration.

We could certainly do with more bridge-building and collaborating in these turbulent times, because it often feels like we have forgotten concepts like meeting each other halfway and compromise. We think we have waited a long time for change to happen and we would really like for change to have happened yesterday. The problem is, we live in a world that’s run by systems and systems are slow and resistant to change. As a good friend said to me: “you think maybe by being in the system, you can change the system, but it’s such a complex thing because by being in the system, you somehow become part of it.” I really don’t know what the answer is. We can only do what we can to the best of our abilities and hope that the little that we do will create some change no matter how small.

This week, I was in conversation with a dear friend, we also talked about this same thing. She told me about how she learned to think in terms of “good enough”. Perhaps it’s not the ideal change, perhaps it’s not the big change that we wanted, but maybe it’s good enough for now. How change happens in increments of time, by checking in and finding out whether a recalibration is needed. Maybe we can move forward a little bit more or it could be that we have to just be satisfied with good enough until the next check in moment.

I think about the words “good enough” when I have the conversation with my oncologist later in the day. I ask my questions and she patiently explains her interpretation of the data. It’s not yet where we want to be, but it’s good enough for now. And while the ideal would be to be completely rid of all the tumors, nodules, lesions and bad cells floating around, a stable or chronic state for a long period of time would be good enough.

It may sound like a strange comparison but I make these jumps in my head because that’s how the brain works. I think: it’s okay to not achieve the ideal all in one go. It’s okay to take it step by step. The important thing is to remain open and curious, interested and ready to look into options and points of compromise. Yep. I’m making the body and world parallel again.

Today, I’m speaking to my body. I’m thankful because I have a strong and sturdy body that has withstood a massive operation and all the treatments so well. I am thankful that I am able to work at regaining the strength and fitness that I had before it all started. I am thankful for the spirit that lives in me, that reminds me to take it one day at a time. I am thankful for today. Thankful that I can hug my son and tell him how proud I am of him (he’s having a bit of a tough time atm). I am thankful for friends who have reached out to me, for loved ones and for people from surprising places who tell me they are sending healing thoughts or praying for me. There’s always something to be thankful and joyful about.

As long as we have life in us, we are not without purpose. We are here to make as much of a difference as we can make. Sharing our stories, passing on our experience, strengthening and encouraging others to spread their wings and fly–discovering things, making memories (all those other things) remind us we are alive. As long as we are in the world, we can make every moment count.

Agyamanac Unay for stopping by. Blessings and peace to you who read these words.

the cancer update

/ RCRuiz

It’s been a really hard week for us as we received news that the hormone therapy that had been keeping cancer cells from spreading was no longer doing it’s optimum work. I now have two nodules in my left lung. It’s not yet life-threatening (my oncologist makes sure I understand this). On the scan, you can see that compared to the mass of my lung, the nodules are pretty tiny. But those tiny things, if not contained, can spread and so to stay ahead of it, my oncologist suggested that we take part in a new study for a monotherapy which combines a protein and a chemotherapy targeting the cancer cell. For homework, we were given a bunch of papers to read so we would understand all the risks involved.

For the first time since diagnosis, I find myself struggling. Uncertain about which direction to go. I wonder if going through another round of chemotherapy will help. When I went through it the first time, we ended up having to postpone treatment three times because my leukocytes were tanking. It got so bad at one point that I had to have a blood transfusion. Weirdly, I was still quite energetic and healthy. A puzzle for my oncologist who thought it was strange that I wasn’t more tired. Looking at my values today, I noticed how hormone therapy did lessen disease activity drastically. However, the scans say the hormone therapy is no longer as effective as it was at first. Hence why we are considering this idea of going through chemo again.

I think that when we’re facing something for the first time, when we don’t really know what’s going to happen, we just go through things trusting that all will be well, but having gone through it and knowing what to expect, we start to weigh things a bit more. Do I really want this? And if there are other options on the table, maybe it’s worth looking at them again before making a final commitment to this trial? My doctor says that the length of effectivity from our existing options are a bit uncertain compared to this new treatment that she’s hoping I will get. But then, again, the trial is a lottery. So, I still have a lot of questions for when we next meet and I think it’s okay and it’s important to ask those questions.

By itself, the infusions don’t hurt. I made it through chemotherapy quite well, except for the final two sessions when I lost all my hair, including my eyelashes and my skin turned slightly grey. I kept teaching throughout treatment (except for days when I felt really sick), I still got to play with the band, and I made art. (And oh yeah, I wrote my first Dutch language SF story.)

I think of how in my work, I’ve sometimes used the body as a metaphor. Here, the body is a world. An anomaly has appeared in this world, it’s one that holds the possibility of taking over the world and consuming it. You just don’t know what needs to be done or how to go about it. Is burning it all down the right approach? Are there gentler and kinder approaches that will allow the body to find equilibrium and balance? What approaches will allow me to contain this anomaly so it doesn’t spread and kill everything else that’s healthy? How do you keep the systems that are healthy in that state of health? (Because I am clearly quite healthy except for existing nodules and small tumors.)

Yesterday, we had a visit from a friend who told us that maybe we have to let go of the hope of a cure. That I may be hoping so much for a cure that I forget that life is more important than the cure. And it had me thinking: if the doctors tell you they only hope to keep the disease chronic for as long as possible, what does that mean? Is it like having high blood pressure and having to take pills for the rest of your days? I don’t mind taking pills. It’s just that I never liked needles and I have developed a sort of traumatic response to being pricked by one. It doesn’t hurt, but I still cry. I say to the nurses: it’s the body that can’t help crying.

A part of me rebels against the thought of letting go of hope of a cure. Like: hello. There are advances being made everyday and all these new studies coming out. But at the same time, I also understand that nothing about this disease is predictable and what works for one patient may not work all that well for another. I understand the gravity of the situation and why I have to take it seriously. Which I do, except I get easily distracted by other things…like how all of what’s going on is great research. And I am still working on this novel draft and I am close to 70k. And hopefully I can finish this draft so by the time treatment starts, I don’t have to worry about the details but can focus on the rearrangement of certain things and filling in blanks like place names and character names.

According to studies, someone spontaneously getting healed from cancer without any treatment happens once in 100,000 cases. We still can’t explain why it happens or how, but it does happen. I’m not thinking of ditching treatment, btw. I just can’t help thinking about this fact that none of us knows just how long or how short our lives will be and none of us can predict what happens next.

We often think life is ours for the saying–we look at the future and it seems to stretch on into forever and we think we’ll just keep on going and doing and planning and racing from one moment to the next until we are faced with the truth of how life is ephemeral and we are ephemera. So, what does it mean to live and what do we mean when we choose life? What kind of marks are we making in the spaces we occupy?

I’m not yet sure what path of treatment we’ll take, but I do know that I would like to still be here on earth for a good while for the sake of my boys who have already lost so much. At times, I think that it just isn’t fair. And then, I think but we were never promised fairness in life. What we were promised is strength for the journey ahead.

Agyamanac Unay for stopping by. Blessings and peace be with you.

how it’s going

/ RCRuiz

I’ve been going to physical therapy with a group of oncology patients for a couple of weeks now and have noticed that while mornings are often much better in terms of energy, afternoons are now improving. I’m not as tired as I was during the first afternoon training. I take this to be a good sign.

Upon my return home from Gladstones, the eldest son told me that I could transform his former bedroom into a writing space. Something I hadn’t even thought of doing because it was always his room, a lot of his things are still in it, and perhaps it’s that mother thought in my head that held the space for him just in case. But, as I was reminded, it’s been a year since he moved out. Birds spread their wings, they leave the nest, and go discover the sky.

So finally, after more than twenty years of writing at the dining table and having to move my mess when it’s time to eat, I have this space where the books I am reading can be left as they are. Where my pens and pencils don’t have to be tidied up and where when I am done for the day, I can close the door and let the projects I’m working on percolate.

I can’t help but think again about Virginia Woolf talking about a room of our own and how women who write need this kind of space.

Before I went to Wales, I downloaded a book by Joanna Penn. In the past, I’ve read books on writing that made me go: Oh, that’s nice. But it doesn’t work for me. Joanna Penn’s “How to Write A Novel” is perhaps the first book on novel writing that’s made me stop and say: I recognize that. For one, Joanna Penn calls herself a discovery writer. She talks about how overwhelming the process of writing a novel can be when you’re like her(like me). It was like a letter from a friend saying: look, I get it. Now tell me why you’re not finishing that novel. For me the greatest thing was a sense of overwhelm. I’d get bogged down in the details and before I knew it, I was lost. (I have a bunch of novels with great beginnings where the middles and ends are all squashed together because I got caught in a tide of overwhelm and couldn’t see where things were going anymore.)

But here I am. It is the beginning of the week. I have returned from my therapy class feeling energized and thinking: you know, you’ve come this far. Look at the horizon. Can you see where this story is going? Can you see how it’s going to end? Can you see what the story is about? Coming on close to 50,000 words, it’s really getting there. (Alarming thought.)

I think of how my sister would tell me to write whatever I wanted to write and to never give up. If my sister were still here, this is the novel I would give her. I would tell her, this is the novel I wrote because of all the conversations we’ve had and which we continue to have in my head. There are moments I just wish I could turn to her and say: what do you think about this?

What’s kept me from finishing novels in the past? At the heart of it has always been fear. Fear I wouldn’t have the right words. Fear I wasn’t up to the task. Fear I would screw up.

It’s funny how my sister’s legacy continues in the words she used to speak to me. My youngest son has had some difficult moments at school (understandable in the light of everything) but I’ve said these words my sister used to say to me: “It’s your dream, do something about it.”

Since I got this room, I’ve been coming up everyday to write words because when we see each other again, my sister will probably ask me what I did about my dreams and I don’t want to say that I was too scared or too overwhelmed to do something about it.

Blessings and peace to you who read this. Agyamanac Unay for stopping by.