Empty as a pocket with nothing to lose...*

I really should listen to myself. Because it's a Rule of Sara that when I start giving other people sage advice, it's really what I need to hear, only in disguise. Take Robin, for instance. She mentioned trying to go vegan (again) and bemoaned her inability to stick with it. Somehow, in my comment to her, I brought up Lent. And emptying. And the cyclical nature of what we crave.

So guess what dawned on me as I drove to the library today? (I'm always driving when the light dawns. It's a wonder that in the blinding light I don't wreck my van.) Yes, I figured out that I'm in a cycle of emptiness in my writer life. I submitted my second book; I'm waiting to hear news about it; I'm not sure I want to start anything new. I know I'll be writing again, soon. I'm not worried. I'm not blocked. I'm not anything. I'm empty. Almost.

A few things were swirling as I browsed through the library shelves. I found a book on drumming. Maybe I want to get serious about learning how to pound out a mean rhythm. But maybe not, because I was already thinking that if I did take lessons, I would be taking notes on the experience for....well, somebody. WHO? An as-yet-unnamed character?

I also wanted to visit the math section. I didn't, because I already had an armload of books. But all that talk from a few days ago about random numbers had me thinking how I would be a math major if I went back to school. Really? I said to myself. You would? Not bloody likely. So WHO does?

There's also the strange fact that poetry has roared back into my life in a big way. I can't hide that I love it and it loves me. I'm going to be a judge for the Cybils Poetry panel. And I already have my Poetry Friday posts written for the next two weeks. Something is going on here.

I like being empty. I like having enough space in my life that drums, math and poetry can saunter about, checking out the premises. I don't know if they'll stay, but I'm trying not to drive them off by bugging them with lots of questions.

I read somewhere that if you want someone new to enter your life, you should clear out one whole drawer or shelf in your house and leave it empty for them. I think the same is true of writing. It's a little uncomfortable to have your writing project shelf be empty. To deliberately resist filling it with knick-knacks.

But if I don't start with an empty space, I'm pretty sure that my finished book won't have any space in it either. And then where would my readers squeeze in? (Not to mention their thoughts, fears, and those big, messy emotions they always seem to bring with them.)

*From Paul Simon's Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes.