It’s Labor Day, and I’m working.
I realize there’s a certain irony in that statement. But I have two books to finish, a deadline approaching, and characters who apparently don’t care that today is a holiday. Such is the life of a writer.
But lately I’ve been thinking about work and rest, and particularly about how difficult it can be for writers—and probably other entrepreneurs—to separate the two. There’s always something else I could be doing. Another chapter to edit. Another story to outline. A blog post to write. An email to answer. Research to finish. A promotional graphic to make. Even when I walk away from my desk, the story usually comes with me.
Over the years, though, I’ve learned that my brain needs time away from writing. The strange thing is that my version of rest doesn’t always look very restful. I love cross-stitching. I love working in my garden and preserving whatever I manage to grow. I find it incredibly relaxing to make jam, blanch beans for the freezer, or even iron a pile of linens.
Yes, I said ironing.
Give me a Rowenta Pro steam iron, a stack of wrinkled linen napkins, a Halloween movie to watch, and I’m perfectly happy. I’ve realized that these activities give me three things that writing often doesn’t: rhythm, control, and completion. There is something soothing about repetitive work done with my hands. Stitch by stitch. Bean by bean. One pressed pillowcase after another.
And, unlike writing a book, eventually I’m finished. The beans are in the freezer. The jam jars are lined up on the counter. The linens are folded in the closet. Another section of the cross-stitch is complete. Writing rarely offers that kind of immediate satisfaction. A book can me take months to write, and even a productive day often ends with dozens of unanswered questions waiting for me the next morning.
So those quiet hours spent doing something completely different aren’t wasted time. They’re part of the work. While my hands are busy, my creative brain gets to rest. Sometimes it wanders. Sometimes it solves a story problem when I’m not looking. And sometimes, wonderfully, it thinks about absolutely nothing important at all.
So yes, I’m working this Labor Day. I have edits waiting for me, and I’m going back to them as soon as I finish this post. But later today, I’ll close the manuscript. I’ll make dinner. Maybe I’ll work in the garden and pick okra and green beans. Or I’ll add a few stitches to my current cross-stitch project. Maybe I’ll even iron my grandmother’s white linen napkins. And I’ll let my mind wander somewhere other than the fictional town where I’ve spent most of my day.
Because I’m finally learning that rest isn’t time stolen from the work. Sometimes rest is what makes the work possible. Happy Labor Day.
