Although my central nervous system is busy rewiring itself, some things have never left. My love of reading, and particularly memoir (something I was able to parse even after I could no longer grok fiction). Memoirs by writers, about writing, remained steadfast through my battle with NPH. (Big thanks to Harlan Coben for writing this memoir.) It’s been two months since my successful shunt surgery, and as reported in last post, I am back to revising the messy first draft I put away as I coped with illness and early recovery.
One thing that’s remarkably different about my fiction writing is the pace. I’m averaging a page a day on the days I’m able to work on the current novel. That’s slow for me, but I am okay with it. I notice I’m choosing my words more carefully, and thinking about the plot more, before I commit those words to page. In revision particularly, I do not feel this is a bad thing. I’m enjoying myself and will be equally happy if I someday revise two pages a day, and on more days of the week (3) than I currently manage.
The plot twist for me is just about the time I was ready to write fiction again, my physical therapy began. After mostly reclining in a chair for the better part of a year, these bones need moving. Having necessarily given up almost complete autonomy, I’m eager to take back full agency of my life. Not just my writing life. I’m unsure if all writers make finishing a novel their first goal after an illness, but it was mine. I even asked my neurosurgeon if it would be possible. He say yes without hesitation. That went a long way toward coloring my world brighter as I awaited surgery, and after, in the liminal place of recovery.
Now I’m happy (and also sad) my focus has widened to take in the entirety of my life. Writing is far from everything. I’m thrilled travel is back on the horizon. That means visiting our grandchildren. And also my mother’s grave, which is not in your typical cemetery, but on a private island amid a field of wildflowers in northern Michigan.
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