how to keep going

the book I co-wrote about sewing comes out tomorrow! and, then what?! big honest feelings all over!

I don’t know if I have ever really talked about sewing in this newsletter before, but it is somewhat my job! Sewing things, designing sewing patterns, teaching other people how to sew. When I say I’m “working,” that is usually what I’m working on. When I have childcare, that is what I do. That is where my income comes from. My collaborator, Amelia (more of her work here!), and I spent the bulk of the past two years writing a big book about sewing — the sort thing I never expected to come of the tiny sewing business I started in my one bedroom apartment. This was a dream come true, an incredible outcome. A book! A real book that would be in libraries! (We really love libraries, this was a huge motivator for us.) And, like so many things that start as dreams, the process of actually writing the book was much harder than expected, much more complicated and not as shiny in real life as it was in the dream. But, I’m very glad we did it, and I’m proud of the book we made. It’s coming out tomorrow! You can read it — even if you aren’t particularly interested in sewing! That was one of our goals for the book, to keep in mind the cozy feeling you get when you just sort of browse a cookbook, not even really intending to cook any of the recipes. And, of course, for it to be a really great book about sewing clothes, especially for beginners. It’s called How to Sew Clothes, and I am excited for it to be out in the world so soon! (Today is the last day to preorder! If you want to learn to sew some clothes!)

But, then what? You work and work and work on a huge project for years, and then once the word is mostly done, you are left alone with yourself and your plans. It was always my hope to be self-employed, but the rub is that then you also have to be self-directed. It’s all up to me to keep going. In this internet half-place, I write about what I’m feeling and learning about parenting, about work, about art, about spirituality. All of these parts of me are implicated in the pure abyss I feel looming ahead of me. The empty page asks me: “what next?” I told my therapist last week that I felt like I was at the bottom of a well — maybe that illustrates the kind of burnout I’m experiencing in this moment of my life. Amelia is off to go hike the Pacific Crest Trail this summer, I’m off to have another baby, we’re both feeling very exhausted after this book process, and there is no clear next thing. I’m not sure I’ve ever been more depleted in my life. It helps to have a clear goal, discrete tasks: publicize the book. After this, there is no clear goal except: keep going.

I suppose that what I ought to do next is make art. And, you know, gestate and birth and care for yet another human. Chill! Easy! No big deal! But I can feel myself needing to take a real break from working, from doing the kind of work that feels like work. I am burnt out. It’s a privilege to get to elect to take that kind of break, or any kind of break at all, but to do so is also risky. As a creative small business owner, any time I’m not spending making the next thing I can sell is, in some ways, wasted time and loss of possible income. In the marketplace, at least. But in my body, in my mind, it might be necessary. And once the baby comes, it absolutely is. All new mothers should be able to take maternity leave, and while mine will not be paid by some outside employer or by the government, there should still be enough passive income coming in to keep the lights on. But for how long? Not forever.

I will be very frank, and say that trying to do creative work while mothering has often felt unsustainable to me. There simply isn’t enough of me to go around, not enough of my spirit left to pour into anything resembling art. The bulk of the work for the book was done in my first year postpartum — that was a whirlwind, often too much so. Every once in a while the possibility bursts back — I publish an essay, I dip back into my long-languishing novel, a flicker of an idea of something to sew materializes in my mind. But I used to be able to depend on these things. I used to be able to assume possibility. Before Tommy was born, there was a time when I could build my days particularly around maintaining ideal conditions to let these ideas grow and flourish and become something real, as much as I could. I would read and write long into the morning, take meandering walks alone, sew through the afternoon, every day. Get my needed tasks done and have lots of time left over for whatever I needed. There was a spaciousness, possibility inside each day. I could take care of myself, and get my work done. There was space for everything, all the different parts of me. That time of my life was not simple, not easy by any means, but I felt confident in my ability to continue making the work I wanted to make — something out of nothing. I don’t feel that confidence anymore. Now, when the toddler is sleeping or away in someone else’s care, I don’t even know how to begin to do anything but stare into space. It takes all my creativity to mother this child. I didn’t know that parenting would use that part of me. I didn’t know that I wouldn’t be able to switch gears more easily.

I am trying to be responsive to the sheer fact that I’m in a state of real vulnerability right now. I’m physically vulnerable — pregnant, sleep-deprived, still trying to thoughtfully navigate pandemic conditions, so tired. Emotionally vulnerable — such difficult hormonal swings, such big personal needs that perpetually go unmet. And vocationally vulnerable! There isn’t a next book deal (except my second poetry book coming out this summer, which I’m so thrilled about). I don’t have manuscripts full of poems or fully-realized sewing patterns ready to make their big debut. There isn’t a next surefire project that will sustain my income. I have… nothing. Or, very little. Bits and scraps of things. I have heard from friends that I appear particularly prolific or “successful” as a creative working mother, and I suppose on paper I really am, I have had so many opportunities and invitations to make work. But I think I’m not feeling any of that right now. I’m feeling very small, very floppy. I’m feeling tired and emptied out.

As an artist, I really want to keep my eyes open to all of this. I want to pay attention to this time. I want more, more, more art about parenting small children, about loving them, and remaining a whole person inside of the loving them. I want more art about how parenting feels. I want it to be possible for parent-artists to make that work. I want to talk about it with everyone I know. I don’t want to drop out of the game right now, this is the compelling stuff! But my old sense of perception, of processing what I’m taking in, simply isn’t working. I don’t feel that internal steam engine of pressing onward in making the creative work happen. I hope I can get it back, maybe in a smaller way. But that will take some rebuilding of my sense of safety within my life. That will require a little more spaciousness. That will require more of my needs being met, little by little. I wish I had fewer needs! So much of parenting little kids feels to me like constant fight-or-flight, constant putting-out-fires, staying constantly vigilant. It’s hard to make art when you’re scared! For me, at least. Perhaps I’m too sensitive, too emotionally invested or volatile, too tender. But that’s just who I am, and part of what makes me an artist in the first place. You can’t escape yourself when the conditions of your life change. And I don’t want to escape parenting! I just want to be able to work too. And right now, I’m not sure how to, not in a way that feels good or makes sense. Not in the way that used to work for me. Everything has changed, including myself.

So this is a note from the middle not-sure place. I need to celebrate that this book is coming out! What a huge thing! And acknowledge the weird feeling of not-knowing coming after. I do feel like I will figure something out. Knowing myself, I always manage to find something to work on, some thread of an idea to pull. But will it keep the lights on, will the money keep coming, will all the bills get paid, will I feel like my life is possible? I don’t know. Like waiting for this baby to be born, waiting for my life to change, I feel myself at the mercy of time, of circumstance, of chance and hope and carrying on. My one meager plan is to sew a weird baby quilt for my new baby — one that won’t make a pattern that many people would ever want to buy. But maybe that’s exactly what I need to do. Maybe I need to just tuck into my little family for a while, keeping them warm, doing very little else, reading novels slowly, being thoroughly unimpressive, and see what comes of that.