Emily Dickinson called her Amherst home “The Homestead.” I lovingly call my apartment in St. Louis the same thing (although I definitely get out more than Dickinson). This monthly newsletter is my attempt to work through what it feels like to put down roots as a writer in my own Homestead.
A Month of Sleep 🛌
I slept so many extra hours this month—going to bed early, sleeping in late, nabbing an afternoon nap. So much delicious sleep. It consumed so much of my month, that I had to write about it here.
My late thirties have been humbling health-wise, especially with respect to sleep. I’ve needed so much of it, hungrily craving my bed or my soft couch. The internet tells me that someone with my biological hardware needs about 9 hours of sleep per night, and my FitBit confirms that my body does indeed desire 8-10 hours per day, regardless of if all those hours take place at the same time.
I think some of my own need for more sleep comes from the fact that I am not a good sleeper. Despite all my attempts to have good sleep hygiene, I struggle to fall asleep at the same time each night. My dreams are generally intense and memorable. I wake throughout the night, my eyes wide open and my neck lacquered with sweat. Because my sleep is so wild and unpredictable at night, I end up crashing midday to catch up on what’s been lost.
In my last Secret Letters, I mentioned that one of my hopes for sobriety was that it would give me better sleep. (It didn’t.) Beyond getting sober from alcohol, I’ve tried cutting caffeine and excess sugar. To be honest, this hasn’t helped much. Still, I was surprised by the sleep riches of March. It wasn’t always good sleep—but it was at least unrestricted and guiltless sleep.
These riches of sleep showed me two things this month:
1) The gradual retreat of “sleep guilt.” Years ago, I used to feel guilty over my desire for sleep. In a stressful marriage between two busy people, any “free time” carried expectations for connection or shared housekeeping. A nap was only something I did when all the other tasks were done. The yard must be mowed. Groceries must be bought. The floors must be mopped. Sleep was not worthy of the daily to-do list.
The bottom line: an extra bout of sleep was a reward, not a necessity.
This past Lent, I was bold and decided I’d try to “fast” from my daily nap—obviously, I gave this up almost immediately. Very soon, I realized that this was the old remnant of “sleep guilt,” the belief that sleep is a privilege, a reward, an indulgence.
Unsurprisingly, living alone and being unmarried changed my relationship to sleep. I stopped being concerned with the sleep needs of another person, and I gave myself permission to sleep when I needed to sleep. No guilt. No worries. Sleep as much as you need, so long as you still take care of yourself and manage your life. All in all, this month was a lovely reminder that you don’t have to be guilty about needing sleep.
There is another gift of extra sleep, one that’s surprised me:
2) The gift of pre-sleep daydreams as a writer. When I lay down for a nap or for a night’s sleep, my mind settles into storytelling daydreams related to my current projects. In a way, this might seem like taking one’s work to bed, but it feels natural for me.
I’m a big proponent of boredom and daydreaming as essential parts of a writer’s life, but this month made me realize how often those storytelling daydreams happen in the half hour before I fall asleep. This is the quiet space where I plan without intently trying to remember every thought. What needs to stick will stick.
I’m not sure this works for every writer, but I encourage you to try it if you’re feeling stuck and want to puzzle something out. Regardless, the sleep will be good for you.
An unexpected writing retreat ✍️
During prison production week for Britches! A Play for Lady Romeos, I made an agreement with myself that I’d use any spare time for writing my newest play, Romanov Family Yard Sale. I knew I would have some quiet evenings in the Super 8 and at least two open mornings to sit at the gas station McDonald’s. Instead of just zoning out in front of the motel room television (which I totally did some nights), I hoped I’d make use of some writing time.
I’m always shocked by how a change of scenery, no matter how unromantic, can catapult my writing brain into a surge of momentum. Sitting at the little desk in my motel room and drinking weak coffee, I cranked out hundreds of words of the new play—as if a strange play (and it is a strange play) needed the midwifery of a generic room to really get itself on paper.
There were even some moments during rehearsal inside the prison where I sat quietly and wrote dialogue, inching my way through the new play under the dome of the prison’s fluorescent-lit gym. These little swatches of writing time were a gift.
I’m over halfway through my first draft of the script. I know the contours of the story, the major moments, and the final image. At this point, I’m just writing my way through. Drafting this play has surprised me—I thought it would mainly be a story of family myth and penance, but it’s turned into a story of purgation. On my title page, that’s what I call it: a purgation play.
One thing I’ve learned about writing is that it’s very difficult to peel away the reality of your life from the themes that turn up in your work. This play wants to be a purgation play probably because I’m in my own internal season of purgation, releasing myself from old dreams, coping mechanisms, and belief systems. At one point in the play, the characters even attempt to create their own religion (spoiler alert: it fails), trying to purge themselves of their own burdens. For me, this metaphor is so close to home.
So, my springtime season of purgation begins—alongside my hobbling characters.
What I’m Reading this Month…
Splinters: another kind of love story by Leslie Jamison. I’ve really enjoyed this memoir of early motherhood and divorce, told from the perspective of a fellow writer. I’m not a parent, but I can see how, if I were, I’d be consumed with the desire to write about it—and continually frustrated at my lack of energy to do so. Jamison draws out this dilemma well, though she ends up being able to write about “the all” of it very beautifully.
The House of Life: Rachel Carson at Work by Paul Brooks. This book isn’t much in print anymore, but I found it easily through the library. A lovely collection of Carson’s most popular pieces, interspersed with essays about her working style (drawn from her journals and letters). Essential reading for any Rachel Carson fan.
Reading Genesis by Marilynne Robinson. This book is unsurprisingly challenging. I’ve had to look up a lot of words. But I like the question the book poses: why are the stories we tell about god in Genesis so terribly domestic? And what if this is the best means we have for “doing” theology? I’m plodding my way through this book, probably missing many wise things, but I’m doing my best.
How I made money this month $$$
I believe freelance artists should be more upfront about how they support themselves financially, rather than maintaining the illusion that they are fully supported by their art (they usually aren’t). This is me attempting to live out that principle. So, here are all the ways I brought in money to the Homestead for the month of March.
Teaching artist work for Prison Performing Arts. Teaching a weekly writing workshop and teaching Spoken Word regularly in a men’s prison. This month, I also continued leading some writing sessions at a probation/parole center.
Playing piano for a local Catholic middle school’s chapel service. I’m learning to play a lot of gospel tunes and Mass music. I’m a pretty mediocre piano player, but this is one of the highlights of my week.
Paid Substack subscriptions. Thank you to all of my paid subscribers. It means the world to me that you make a financial contribution to my work.
Spring arrives gradually and then all at once.
May your early spring be full rest and good sleep. Though tired, my eyes are still on the world at-large. Just this morning, I stared for a long while at the remains of a hospital in Gaza—one of very few. So many ashes. So much dirty, bulging concrete. The air so thick with dust that it adds grit to all your food, what little of it you have.
And all for what?
This is a newsletter about my own homestead, my own life. But I want you to remember, reader, that I have no faith in war. No faith at all.
Today starts a new month.
Yours,
Courtney, Mistress of the Homestead, and Sleepy Midge the Cat 🐈⬛