Lessons From Writing Fiction

On Living With Poetic Freedom

After my daughter was born, I started writing fiction. As much as I loved (and still love) writing essays and capturing moments in time for deeper reflection, I couldn’t. I couldn’t will myself into philosophical examination, couldn’t parse out the myriad changes happening within me and around me.

It felt as if the very ground I was walking on was both new and quivering; perhaps it was. Perhaps that’s exactly what was happening: the old floors I had grown familiar with were crumbling beneath my feat, and every step forward, backward, or sideways was leading me into unmarked, unknown territory.

I stopped writing about it and committed myself to simply living it, and simultaneously fell in love with writing in a new format. Fiction wasn’t something I was prone to writing, but it felt remarkable as soon as I dove in. Liberating. Exciting. Electric.

I often found myself waking up at 4:00am and adding thousands of words to this burgeoning story. Sometimes my daughter would be wrapped in her Solly and secured to my chest, sleeping soundly with the contact. Other times, I was gifted one pristine hour of quiet and stillness. The world had not yet awoken, and so I was free to explore the one I was creating on paper.