Vacation

  The whole world is not on vacation this month, at least half the world is in the middle of winter, but for the purposes of this blog, think summer. Where I live the sun in shining, the ocean is a lazy blue and the smell of fresh cut hay fills the air.  School's out, children are cycling and running on the street.  Neighbours chat over the back fence and shake their heads at the size of the mosquitoes. 

     It is summer time and that means a change in the rhythm of life.  Instead of grocery shopping, I go to my garden and collect the harvest -- and do some weeding and replanting.  Instead of waiting all day for my laundry to dry, I hang the clothes on the line and bring them in after only an hour or two.  Instead of making soup for lunch, I make a salad.  The days are long.  Instead of settling in with a book or needlework after supper, I may play golf or go for a swim, or make jam.  The day job may still be nine-to-five, but the summer pace is different.

    Now, here's my question.  What happens to my writing when I'm literally on vacation?  Sometime over the next two months, we'll be away from home, visiting new locations, connecting with old friends.  What happens to the writing routine in those times? 


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     Plenty of writing gurus proclaim that "to be a writer, you must write everyday."  Julia Cameron insists on "morning pages" every day.   I found the same advice in Becoming a Writer, by Dorothea Brande, copyright 1934.    This same book advocates that to write as a profession, we must be a writer in personality and temperament.  Until we have achieved the state of being a writer, Ms Brande contends, exercises and workshops on craft are a waste of time and money. 
   In her view, the true writer is a split personality, one part child, imaginative, temperamental, tender, undisciplined and creative.  The other part is like the older brother, focussed, determined, organized, tough, and protective.  She emphasises the need for the "artist" personality to have free rein to explore, dream and play.  It is the job of the "older brother" to keep track of royalities, check contracts, deal with rejection slips, set a timetable, send out queries -- all to protect the creative side from harm. 

    If her thesis holds true, I would suggest the older brother needs a vacation now and again.  Even big business knows that employees who have frequent breaks are more productive.
   So, if the "older brother" goes on vacation, what happens to the artist/child?  Should we free ourselves from the discipline of morning pages or daily word counts?  Can we spend time to explore, soak up new landscapes, listen to unfamiliar accents, see stories emerge from the waves on a sandy beach without the requirement to write it down? To use another of Julia Cameron's precepts, is a vacation from writing is just an extended artist's date?

   Or, having spent weeks and months training our unconscious to see and record and imagine, will a vacation put us back to square one, stemming the flow of the unconscious writer, pushing the creative side into inaccessible corners of the mind?

   So, dear readers, I ask you.  Do I take a pen and notebook on vacation, get up early and write morning pages, or do I dance on the beach and weave daydreams in the clouds?

Alice Valdal is usually a disciplined writer, but summer time does bring out the carefree child.  She counters this tendency by rising early but it's hard to stay at the computer when sunshine and birdsong fill the back deck.  Pen and paper or an alphasmart let her keep up the work side of writing while still enjoying the light.

visit her at www.alicevaldal.com

Summer Vacation

Alice Valdal here, posting for Cathy West, who is still enjoying her summer vacation, dabbling her toes in a lake and inaccessible by Internet.
I'm just back from my own summer trip. I went home, to the place where I was born, walked the lane ways of my childhood, swam in clear, deep water and, one magical night, watched falling stars streak through the heavens. Ah, thought I, summertime!

Then we went visiting, reconnecting with my family, meeting the newest babies and greeting a bridegroom. We lived in a car, navigated strange cities, desperately seeking rest stops, and wondered loudly why "they" can't post signs for the blinking freeways. Ah, thought I, a visit is not a vacation!

Two nights in a stuffy hotel room, too much food, too much noise, too little sleep and I had a cold. With a determined smile, we waved farewell to family, boarded the subway and headed for the airport. On the way, the express bus broke down. We got caught in a cloudburst. We trundled through miles of airport hallways -- desperately seeking a rest stop -- printed our own boarding passes, tagged our own luggage and finally made it to the departure gate, only to encounter a long wait. The incoming plane was late. Finally on board, forty minutes behind schedule, we taxied down the runway. My head ached, my eyes burned but, I figured out the flying time and the time zone changes, and took heart. I'd be home before dark. Then the plane stopped. We waited again, while a brake cooled down. Ah, thought I, I hate holidays!

Landed at last on Vancouver Island. The temperature had dropped and a wind blew hard across the parking lot. At least the cool air felt good on my fevered skin. A short taxi ride and we were home. I dumpedthe suitcase of dirty clothes into the washer, waded through the drifts of cat hair that now covered the pristine floors I'd left behind, popped a cold tablet and fell into bed. Ah, thought I, my own pillow!

Next morning I turned on my computer and found 1000 items in my inbox. I opened the fridge and found it bare. I wandered out to the garden and beheld a jungle. Pumpkins grew through the roses, squash vines strangled the peas, bean plants bent under the weight of their crop. The grass was long, the weeds in full array and tucked into my freezer were buckets of plums my neighbour had plucked from my tree and saved for me. Ah, thought I, what a friend!

Today the laundry is done, I've fruit for jam, simmering on the stove. The cats have forgiven our absence. One is curled on my lap right now. The sun is shining. The lawn is mown, my inbox is empty and this morning's devotional is Matt. 11: 28. Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Ah, think I, rest in the Lord. Now that's a vacation!

Anyone care to share a vacation memory?

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