Five years of my life on the floor in my office
On "geologic time," shelving our work, and experiments in revision.
Before leaving for Italy, I reached a satisfying milestone on my memoir journey: finishing a draft. The LAST draft. I’ve actually lost count, or haven’t been counting, because there have been so many iterations now—some drafts needed more rewriting, some required more rearranging. They’ve all involved a pink pen.
The last time I spread everything out on the floor like this was a few years ago, when I was still developing my first structure. Because it braided three timelines, I color-coded the sections with different highlighters so I could see what the balance was. I thought it was the one. (For a while, it was.)
In a recent podcast conversation with Brad Listi,
described the writing process as existing in "geologic time," which is to say, it moves very, very slowly. “You have to love making things more than you love having made the thing.” You have to love the process. You have to look forward to seeing yourself change.I don’t write toward a deadline much these days. Even “finish before I leave” was held loosely, so I was excited to feel the momentum build in March. When I knew I was close, it was easy to focus and I relished printing out a clean copy the week before our flight. I stacked it nearly, placed the bundle in a clear sleeve, and put it in a drawer where it sat for approximately six weeks.
On the second to last day of our trip, on a boat in Lake Como, I remembered I was a writer and had an entire manuscript waiting for me at home. This forgetting and then remembering felt like a gift to my future self.
Returning to the words I’ve read at nauseam, I was happy with what I read—always a good sign. The focus of this draft was incorporating research about waves and oceans (a central metaphor throughout the book) in a way that felt purposeful rather than forced. In most instances, when I encountered new material, it felt successful. I was even… delighted?
Keeping at it can feel like washing sheets: something I know I should do but don’t feel like doing. But then I crawl back into a freshly made bed and know it’s all worth it.
On Monday I made an iced matcha latte and sat on the porch for an hour and a half. I finished reading on Tuesday. On Wednesday morning I spread everything out on the floor in my office and proceeded to move a few things around.
On Wednesday night I went to look at the grid while brushing my teeth. “That’s five years of my life on the floor right there,” I said to my husband after returning to the sink. “Our lives,” he corrected me. “We’ve been on this emotional journey with you.” It was all said with a smile, but there’s a kernel of truth in it. I’m the one who has been mining my memories, making outlines, writing and rewriting, and trying to craft a book. But he’s also heard me talk it out, complain, and remind me I can do this.
On Thursday I did nothing. Even when I tried to look at the floor, my brain wasn’t able to solve the puzzle.
On Friday morning I lifted weights and went for a walk. Then I moved two pages around. Changed the title of a section. Wrote a few things down on sticky notes. Packed it all up and moved the mass to a leaning clipboard on my desk which means only one thing: It’s almost time to let this story go.
Until next time,
Nicole
P.S. A new poem of mine was accepted for an anthology! It’s being published in the UK and will hopefully be out this fall—stay tuned.
Thank you for reminding me that this is all part of it. The stepping away, rearranging, playing and getting "no where" is all part of it.
I appreciate the reminder that a writing project is just that - a project - and it takes time. I love hearing about writers that have taken years to complete a work. It puts all the effort into perspective for me.