As we approach spring break, here's a post that's been sitting in my drafts folder since Christmas vacation.
I signed with a literary agent a few months ago. After resigning from the refugee clinic, I took April and May to write a book proposal. ("But how did you -- ?" Google.) I signed with Robert Mackwood of Seventh Avenue Literary Agency in August, dropping my contract into a mailbox in Quebec City while on vacation. I spent the fall at the kitchen table writing. It's been lovely. It's been lonely.
This summer, I took a one-week creative non-fiction course at UBC with Mandy Catron, and attended the Taos Writing and Wellness Retreat for Health Professionals in New Mexico. Both confirmed how much I love writing. Both made me wonder if taking time from patient care to write is indulgent. I'd spend two hours discussing memoir, then guiltily calculate how many patient visits I could have fit into that time.
In November, with the Syrian refugee crisis, the niche area of medicine I'd worked in for years received unprecedented attention. The website I developed during my maternity leave with Ilia received a funding injection. I jumped on an opportunity to do consultant work, helping the province prepare for an influx of refugees over the next few months.
2015 was supposed to be the year I decided on my next long-term career commitment. My consultancy work has an expiry date on it. Writing will always be ancillary to my career, not the focus of it. In December, still no closer to choosing from four or five very different career options (all medical, none related to refugees), I hired a career coach. Give me three more months.
This was our tenth year in Deep Cove. I love the depths here, of the water, mountains and mood. It's quiet and beautiful. We ski Mt. Seymour, we hike the Baden Powell trail and we paddle in Indian Arm. And yet ten years strikes me as the perfect number on which to end.
2015 marked my last year with a preschool-aged child. I've been home with Ilia three days of the week this fall. I love our slow days, the hum of the fridge in a quiet house while she paints at the kitchen table and I plan dinner. She turns five next month, and joins the other three at school full-time in the fall. That will end fifteen years of staying home with the kids part-time.
And so 2015 felt to me like the year of endings, but not quite of beginnings. The beginning of beginnings, maybe. The Year of the Lull. An intermission. It was restful but I'm restless.
I'm about ready to lay down the ten year plan. 2016 will be the year of decisions. It will be the year of beginnings. Fingers crossed, one of those beginnings is the foreword to my first book.