The next best thing
What I'm doing instead of walking and writing
I haven’t been able to walk normally for about two weeks now. This happens from time to time, though never to this extent—a day or two of intense pain, then it’s fine—it usually clears up, and it usually feels better when I wear supportive footwear, but not this time.
This time the pain worsens through the day, so that by evening I am limping so badly I’m essentially immobile. I hobble from one room to another if I need to, hopping on my left to give my right a break, but I try hard to stay in one place. The pain seems to reset while I sleep—but it hurts so bad at the beginning of the night that I can’t even bear the weight of a duvet cover on my foot.
The pain reminds me of the time I broke my ankle, it’s that bad. Imagine you broke your ankle—or, more accurately, the numerous tiny bones in your foot—and tried to walk on it without crutches. That’s how this feels.
If it gets bad earlier in the day, like it sometimes does, I lean on Izzy as a human cane.
I’m in the market for a cane, actually, but I want to find a cute one :) Should I get the one that Selma Blair uses??
Clearly I’m flaring, though I haven’t been able to admit it. My meds are coming tomorrow after several months of not being able to afford the copay (more on this in another post I’m planning for this week), and I’m hopeful that getting some Orencia back in my system will help clear up this foot issue.
On a similar pain level (artistically, rather than physically) I haven’t been able to write this new novel draft. The ideas, the new plan, the whole outline… it’s all there, but the writing isn’t coming. I don’t believe in writer’s block. I know this is a perfectionism issue. A fear issue. A what-if-I-write-it-and-this-agent-still-doesn’t-want-to-represent-me issue. And yet, I haven’t been able to take the leap and start.
So what do you do if the pain is bad? What do you do if you can’t quite take the leap and get started on the project? I know what I do: I do the next best thing.
If I can’t walk, I stand.
In the last two weeks I’ve taken an enormous amount of pleasure in standing. It doesn’t seem to affect my foot as much, and it’s the next best thing. Don’t get me wrong—I am yearning for the days when I can walk around the block again—when I can go for a hike without bringing a book with me in case I need to stop and rest for an unforeseeable amount of time. But in the meantime, standing (or sitting) outside in my yard, enjoying the autumn sunshine, looking at the vibrant color of the leaves, is so so wonderful. I’m grateful, so grateful, that my knees are in relatively good shape; that my neck can crane skyward; that my left foot can do most of the weight bearing. Standing at the sink and doing the dishes brings me a sense of accomplishment, of fulfilled purpose, even if I can’t do much else. Standing in my yard for some fresh air brings me a sense of peace, even if I can’t get my heart rate up. Standing reminds me of this gratitude. Standing reminds me that I can never ever take my body for granted. Standing reminds me that my body is still capable of so much, even when it isn’t capable of an action I once thought was standard. I feel a sense of lightness and ease in knowing that I can harness this mindset. One day, if my illness progresses, I might be chairbound, or even bedbound. I might not be able to see at some point in my life (RA can cause blindness). I’m sure it will all be a huge adjustment, if those days come, but if I can’t walk or sit or use my eyes, I take comfort in the fact that I will do the next best thing.
If I can’t write, I read.
Similarly, the next best thing to writing right now is reading. I have spent the past month reading two books that have become wonderful narrative and structural references for this next rewrite: NOTES ON AN EXECUTION by Danya Kukafka, and THE BEE STING by Paul Murray (thank you Marge for the rec). Two gorgeous books—they have been such a pleasure to read. I’m not quite finished with The Bee Sting… I’m savoring it. I don’t want it to end. Reading in this way—that is, reading as a writer; reading to push myself forward as a writer; reading to learn about craft; reading with utmost artistic attention—has reminded me of my own motivations as a writer. I write not just to finish the story, but to create a world in which other readers will be able to luxuriate and find pleasure in. By reading in this way has given me this sacred sense of closeness with literature again, which is something that has fallen to the wayside since I began querying. Pausing and relishing in books again has been a beautiful gift, and it’s honestly given me energy to put back into writing, when I’m ready to pick up my pen again.
xo, Lys
Other news:
I relaunched my reading workshop, Avid, which is available for purchase if you would like to cultivate a really strong sense of ritual into your daily routine centered around reading!
I just finished designing my dear friend
‘s next book, Look About You, which you can preorder! I’ve officially added book designer to my list of services— I’m available for projects :)
Living with chronic pain, I believe in "the next best thing" 100%, but my challenge is being prepared for it, to make sure I have a list of options, have the materials at hand, and the tools accessible (breathing or tapping) to transition from my original plan to that next thing, to be able to say with (some) joy, "If not that, than this." Everyone has detours and obstacles and we all need to make our time count (and not always by being "productive," just intentional). Thank you for the reminder, Alyssa.
Thank you for sharing! You are strong and brave. 😌