Turning over that new leaf

My first goal for tomorrow will be to recapture the territory I liberated today, territory that I expect will fall to the enemy overnight.  And then, when I’ve secured my borders, I’ll see if I can’t extend them a little.

No, I’m not moonlighting as a mercenary, and I’m not embroiled in another absorbing computer game.  I’m raking leaves.

I live far out of D.C., on a mostly wooded lot.  The only open area in my yard is the croquet field—or septic field, if you want to use the term the county would recognize.  The croquet field is about a quarter of an acre, and surrounded by towering, majestic oaks and tulip poplars, along with a fair scattering of other, smaller trees, like maples and hollies, that would put on airs and pretend to tower if the oaks weren’t around to keep them in line. Most of the time, I adore my trees.  I love the deep, cooling shade they cast, the rich vibrant green I see when I look out my windows, and the sighing sounds the leaves make when a breeze rustles through them.

Then fall comes, and I wonder whether I have a few too many trees.

Right now I often alternate between leaf-raking and writing.  Write till I run out of mental steam.  Wander out into the back yard and rake leaves till I run out of physical energy.  Repeat until my quota is done, or until I run out of leaves.  So far the latter hasn’t happened.  I usually start the day’s raking by cleaning up the areas I raked yesterday, getting them back into perfect shape before clearing new territory. More often, by the time I’ve finished one end of the cleaned up space, the other end is already disappearing under the slow, steady, inexorable rain of more leaves.

Days like today, I feel inclined to stand in the middle of the croquet field, tap the handle of my rake on the ground to get the trees’ attention and shout, "Get it over with already!  Can’t you just drop all the damn leaves at once instead of this gradual trickling down?"  But the trees rarely respond to questions like this, unless you call shaking down a few more leaves a response. Looking up at them, I can see that what I’ve raked so far probably isn’t even half of what they will eventually be showering on my yard.   Occasionally I wonder why I bother.

I know why I bother.  Last year, I was too busy to rake leaves all fall, and told myself it would be more efficient to wait until they were all down and then rake.  Bad idea.  My busy times didn’t end when the leaves stopped falling; and the vast expanse of lawn choked in several inches of leaves was so intimidating that I didn’t really get up the energy to tackle it until late winter—by which time the sodden mass of leaves had killed much of what little grass my lawn actually contains.

No, this year I’m applying the same techniques to the leaves that I do to my writing.  Writing a novel is even more intimidating to contemplate than raking a ton of leaves.  So I break it up.  I set myself a daily quota of a certain number of words, and when I finish that day’s task, I’m allowed to call that day a success, even if I haven’t done another thing all day.  And that means that in addition to a big celebration when I finish the book, I also get dozens of little celebrations all along the way.

But I try not to have too many of those days that begin and end at the keyboard.  I did too much of that a few books ago—crawled into the deadline cave for a few weeks and ignored everything other than my book.  When I crawled out again, I realized that the entire rest of my life—house, yard, filing, volunteer work, friend and family connections—was a shambles. Took a long time to put out the fires and clean up the damage.  And it dawned on me that if in addition to my quota I’d just done a little every day on those seemingly unimportant nonwriting chores, not only would life after deadline be less hellacious, life during deadline would work a lot better.  "It’s easier to keep up than catch up" became my mantra. 

So even though I’m on deadline again, I’m not ignoring the leaves.  Or the laundry, or the dishes, or the filing, or paying bills, or any of the other million and one nonwriting things that fill our days—but right now, my mind, clearly, is on the leaves.  By bedtime tomorrow, I hope to have written another 1500 words and cleared off another six or eight square feet of lawn.  If I succeed, I’ll not only be on track toward meeting my deadline, but I’ll be keeping my life on an even keel while doing so.

And if I don’t succeed, I’ll try again the next day.  The leaves aren’t going anywhere.

Comments

[Dana]

As my father said about the chores that inevitably come when moving into a new house, don't worry about getting them all done today. It's not like anyone will break in and do them for you. They'll all be right where you left them. Fear not.