The Lifecycle of a Writer by Lori Sebastianutti
Cycles order the natural world. From a young age, we learn that a caterpillar becomes a butterfly, a seed becomes a plant, and a baby eventually becomes an adult. The moon has phases, too, eight that repeat every 29 days. Writers are very familiar with cycles. That brain spark that leads to a first draft, followed by revision and edits, and finally a finished product we excitedly send out into the world. We have cycles of creativity too, from reading and reflection to butt-in-chair, in-the-zone word flow.
I know a thing or two about cycles. In 2019, I was diagnosed with Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD)—a hormonal-based mood disorder in which symptoms of Major Depressive Disorder manifest in the last two weeks of the menstrual cycle. In those weeks, sufferers experience depression, anxiety, lethargy, irritability, brain fog, and fatigue, among other symptoms. As a result, maintaining a thriving writing practice over the last three years has been challenging. I know what’s coming every month, and I often spend the first two weeks dreading the last.
Managing these mini-cycles among life’s inevitable challenges makes it even harder. For example, last year, when I faced a diagnosis of sudden sensorineural hearing loss, I found it difficult to write. I had to process this loss in addition to the ups and downs I experienced every month, and as a result, no matter how hard I tried, I could not tap into my wells of creativity. So, challenging, on one awful day, I emailed my mentor and the editor of the essay collection I’m working on to tell her I wanted to quit writing. That’s what this depression does. It whispers nasty tales and makes you believe them. So, you think you’re a writer, eh? Think again.
Writing is not only what I do; it nourishes my soul, feeds my spirituality, and helps me feel whole. So, what can I do, especially in a misogynistic society that punishes women and those who menstruate and labels them as “bitchy,” “hysterical,” and “hormonal?”
First and foremost, I reach out to my support system. My mentor immediately set up a Zoom call, and I cried it out. I unloaded on her, and she took it all in. Then, when a new cycle started, I had the clarity to see that, of course, I’m a writer, a writer who has bad days.
I work within the system. When rested, alert, and happy for the first 14 days of the cycle, I indulge in the butt-in-chair, magic-of-word-flow phase. Or I sit at my desk, open up my WIP and start the fun exercise of slashing and replacing, rewording, and rephrasing. Or I slog at getting that first draft written freehand in my notebook. I listen as my pen slides over the paper with my big, loopy cursive and tell myself the story. Finally, I hop onto social media and my online writing groups to check in and see what’s happening in the literary world.
When the world starts to feel heavy, I listen to my mind and body. I rest more and exert less. I shift my focus in my writing life too. Now is the time to read that book on my shelf that I’ve been neglecting. I zone in on the practice of mind-writing. I flesh out ideas for essays as I take a walk or stroke my child’s hair as we watch The Adventures of Pokémon. I stay off social media.
Most critically, I practise self-compassion. I refuse to add to the stigma of mental illness that permeates our world or perpetuate false narratives that having a menstrual cycle makes you inadequate or incompetent. I acknowledge the supports I need in medication and therapy. I work on raising the volume of the positive affirmations: I’m a writer, my story matters, the work will get done as it needs to, and minimize any thoughts that don’t line up with them. I remove any self-imposed timelines and focus on giving the work what it needs to grow, including a happy, healthy gardener. I think of the bean plant my son brought home from school last spring and how we watered it and exposed it to the right amount of sunlight. We were a team, reminding each other of our responsibilities, and equally delighted when the green sprout began to push through the soil and eventually grew so large that we had to replace its container.
This blog post is my first piece of writing since January. The winter was a long and difficult one for me. As the snow was falling and the temperature was dropping, so was I. But I’m crawling back from under the frozen ground and entering a new season. This season of longer days, more sunlight, and warm breezes welcomes me into its fold. So, I’m writing again, paying close attention to the ebb and flow of my body, recognizing the rise and falls, the peaks and valleys, and that after winter, spring never fails to show up.
While nurturing his bean plant, my son told me that certain beans, such as the Scarlet Runner, are perennial plants that regrow every spring. He explained the plant is still alive below the snow-covered ground—it’s just sleeping. During the growing season, the plant stores energy in its roots, and when the earth starts to warm up in spring, it begins regrowing.
I am like a perennial plant. I have strong roots that store energy for when I need it most. And I can now recognize when it’s time to power down, yield, and give back to the earth, always knowing that the cycle, and I, will begin anew.
Lori Sebastianutti is a writer of creative nonfiction that interrogates fertility, feminism, and faith. Her work has been published in The New Quarterly, the Hamilton Review of Books, and the Humber Literary Review, among other publications. You can read more of her work at lorisebastianutti.com.
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