The vacancy between novels

There’s always that moment, right when I finish working on a novel, where I feel like I can finally take a breath for the first time in months. For months, I’ve pushed to finish a draft; woke early in the morning to write before heading off to work, spent half of my lunch break writing, wrote into the evenings from my bed. And when not writing, planning and outlining and story-building.

Then, it all comes to a grinding halt.

The first draft is done, and then content edits are done; and it’s off to the beta readers.

And I wait. I’ve nothing to do but wait.

Don’t get me wrong. I need the break. My mind needs the chance to refresh itself; my inner reservoir of creativity needs time to replenish. One story is ending, barring any remaining edits post-beta phase; another story looms on the horizon.

Or, in my case, several other stories.

Do I write the sequel immediately, or do I hold off and shift my focus to one of the other stories begging for my attention?

There’s this vacancy between novels where just about anything feels possible. A temptation, too, either to hold to tightly to one project, or to fling myself to flippantly into another. Do I write the sequel immediately in order to exploit what little momentum I’ve gained, or do I throw deadlines to the wind and write a fresh, new story? Or do I juggle multiple projects at once?

It’s exciting; exhilarating even, all these possibilities. A little scary, too. What if I get it wrong? What if I’m not ready to tell that story, or this other story has gone stale while waiting on the shelf for me to pick it up and resume working on it?

But I set the questions and considerations to the side; because this is my chance to take a breath. The inhale of fresh perspective; the exhale of old worries.

Here’s what I must remember:

Life is the single greatest story we’ll ever tell, and it is lived in the vacancy between novels.

The ebb and flow of laughter and conversation with my family. The quiet solitude of morning coffee and strolls through the neighborhood with my dog. The crackling of a thunderstorm viewed safely from the shelter of my porch. The sleepy climb into my bed at the end of a long day. The meandering drive to work the next morning as I pray and ponder even small blessings. The stroke of the pen in my journal when a new thought springs to mind. The adrenaline rush of excitement when I meet a new person, each one a new potential friend. The laying bare of my own soul before the Lord each day as I contemplate what He’s done, who I am, and who I might become. The regrets that fill me with remorse and the errors that cause me shame; even these are part of my story, told in chapter and verse.

This hollow space between where I was and where I’m going is a field, sprawling and open and ready for the planting. It is the Wood Between the Worlds where I find myself again, the pools of my life glittering and reflecting back up at me. I reintroduce myself to me—all of me; brother and son, friend and rival, prodigal and prince, sinner and saint, allegiant and rogue, preacher and student.

And I realize I must always return here. It would be terrible only to go from one story to the next with no space in between to remember who I am and what I have to say. I could do it; I could drown in the words as one drowns in the wide berth of a puddle, knowing that I’ve only scratched the surface.

Or I could sit here for a while. The words I have to say, let them sit here in my soul.

And root me to myself.