Reading · Postmenopausal and here for it

I have a special writer’s sweater. Bought on clearance in a size larger than my normal size, this chunky navy blue cardigan features two front pockets large enough to hold my phone and my lip balm. It’s long, stretching over my hips with five wood-tone buttons down the front.

Like the Mr. Rogers of my childhood, I change into this cardigan with its ribbed cuffs and cotton waffle knit, specifically when I head into my office. You may remember my white desk overlooks my shallow front yard, a sidewalk, a residential street, and then finally the trees and grass and birds and squirrels of a natural area.

This cardigan holds a spare tissue on the mornings when I need it. It buffers me from the chill of the open blinds on a cool winter morning.

You won’t see this cardigan when I’m at the grocery store or meeting a friend for lunch.

Because the real secret of this cardigan is that it’s just and only a writer’s cardigan.

I made it so.

I put it on – or in a pinch, its chestnut-colored twin – before I sit down to write every morning at 9 am. I no longer make morning plans – although I honor a few preceding commitments.

I write. Rain or shine, every morning, I write for 25-minute sprints with a 5-minute break in between. Sprint, break, sprint, break, sprint, break, sprint, done. Sometimes alone, sometimes with other writers on zoom.

Sundays? Yes. Holidays? Yes, I write. Surely not Christmas, you ask. Yes, I write.

I took a break when my kids were here. As soon as I dropped off my son at the airport, I returned to my keyboard and cardigan. I wrote next to the window, amused by the birds outside my window and the stories inside my head.

It’s the power of routine, of course. The markers and boundaries around that routine support it, provide reinforcement. I don’t have to debate, decide or deliberate. I just do.

When I wear the sweater, the dogs know to settle in – one under my desk and the other at the doorway – while I write. They’re ready to leap up for the inevitable bathroom break or water refill.

The ordinariness of it all makes room for creativity.

No news, no doom-scrolling, no socializing before writing. I live alone, so that last part is relatively easy. Even if I didn’t, it would be worth setting that boundary on the time between waking, breakfast, getting dressed, writing and finally lunch.

My sweater becomes shorthand for that transition. The routine begins when I put it on and walk into my office to open my laptop. The routine ends when I change out of my cardigan and into whatever layer makes sense for the next thing – sweatshirt or jacket for the dog park, outdoor sweater for social things or errands.

Lunch is the celebration of a productive morning, a chance to stretch my legs with the pups at the local dog park, time to integrate the morning’s lessons. The afternoon can be anything – more writing, classes, appointments and chores.

But the morning is mine. Just me and my sweater.

The good news about a consistent routine is that it’s boring. There’s no novelty so our brains look for something new. As a writer, I can direct that need for creativity onto a blank page.

It sounds silly, I get it. But it works. It gets me in the writer’s mindset when writing is hard. It keeps me in the zone longer than questioning how long, when I can stop. I know when I stop because it’s the same time Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday (and so on, you get it).

If my focus was working out instead of writing, it would be my leggings. Maybe if I’m very careful, I can layer my routines to include one and then the other. But I’ve learned something about myself. Build one solid routine first. Let it work. Then maybe, when it’s very solid and established, think about the second one.

Don’t let perfect be the enemy of good. Don’t let perfection get in the way of progress.

This sweater and I delivered the first revised draft of my memoir to a critique group yesterday. My stomach quaked, my hands shook, my eyes watered after pressing send. I had a minor panic attack while sitting in a restaurant’s parking lot, waiting for them to open.

Who was I to write a book? What if it’s horrible? What if it’s not? Am I going to share the stories of my childhood with everyone? How do authors do this? It’s like waking up from a dream where you’re naked at the front of the classroom, except it’s real and there are no take-backs.

I took deep breaths, read funny comments in my Writers’ Group, and eventually felt human again. I remembered it’s a huge accomplishment, even if it’s horrible.

While they are reading and making notes in the margins, I will be back here in Substack.

I’d love to apologize for my long absence, but I can’t. I love that I was off writing a book for the very first time. Doing what it took to get it to a place where I can let other people read it.

I do thank you for your patience while I was off wallowing in my own life, looking for meaning in it all.

Will it ever be a published book you can read? I hope so, even though at this moment that’s a terrifying prospect. For now, it’s all I can do to patiently wait as it’s being read by a group of fellow writers. My history is being read.

In the meantime, I started the project I planned to write before my 15-year-old self highjacked my pen in favor of the memoir. This new project is historical fiction about an heiress who forged her own path. Time evaporates when I’m researching it. That’s a great sign.

I’m not sure what will replace the cardigan when summer temperatures make it impractical to wear in the mornings. What I do know is that if I lose my way, I’ll check to see if my routine is in place. Because when it is, it is magic.

One thing I know for sure – I learned how to write a book. My sweater helped me realize I have the discipline, routine and creativity needed to do it.

And I can’t wait to do it again.

I have a secret.

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