I was a little apprehensive about going this year. I’ve shared here before what a hard time I’ve had with writing and confidence and…everything else. But I shouldn’t have worried. I left the weekend feeling so uplifted and validated and hopeful for what’s next. Because there will be something next.

waiting to bloom.

Writing is going as well as writing ever goes in April for a teacher. It’s a hectic time of year. I’m making tiny progress, which is still progress. I’m constantly reminding myself that every word counts. Every snippet dictated adds up. Every sentence typed on my phone makes a difference. And summer is coming! And summer is when I get to pretend I’m a full-time writer. I walk my daughter to camp and spend hours at the library or in my office, getting words on the page, building on every hard-won word that I managed to plant during the school year.

I was thinking about writing a lot over the last few weeks as I got my garden ready for planting. There was a lot of work to be done; weeds to clear out, old dirt to move to different planters and fresh compost to put in the raised beds. It was hard, actually, to look at the bare soil and remember the hundreds of tomatoes I picked last summer. The way the flowers turned their faces to the sun. The way everything was perfect, for a few fleeting weeks, before the cold came and the plants withered away. But it’s a cycle; each spring, I start again, tending to the seedlings in their tiny pots, watching them sprout, and keeping an eye on the overnight lows so I don’t kill them by putting them in the ground too early. I make sure there’s good compost, good dirt. Enough sunshine and enough water. Birth and death and rebirth. Growth, and rest.

Last summer, I wrote 90k over three different projects. I struggled to find my footing in any one story; all I heard in my head was Edie’s voice, and nothing was coming out quite correct. I was working in soil that was depleted. I was exhausted and heartbroken and discouraged. Frustrated. I wondered if I would ever write anything worthwhile again.

I didn’t let myself rest. And let’s be honest—I wasn’t getting the right amount of sunshine or water, either. And so this fall, I gave myself permission to stop. To rest. To be gentle with myself.