On Writing
Writing is food for my soul, the creative flow that connects me with the brilliant mosaic of life. It’s how I make sense of the chaos, put order into the messiness of life, and channel the boundless reams of energy stored up inside my brain.
Writing is a download from the universal computer. I was born to listen to the thoughts and ideas running through my head. Gifts, they are, presented to me at random, in the hope that I will take them and mold them into something unique, a new perspective or grouping of words, that makes a brief, but hopefully strong connection with the reader.
Most days, my daily life of work and parenting squeezes me dry. However that doesn’t stop me. In fact, I write all the time.
In my head.
While walking or driving or standing in line, ideas for essays, book titles, and screenplays run through my head like a ticker tape. I’ll hear entire paragraphs recited in a steady stream, at least, that is until I get distracted by physical reality, such as having to cross a busy street or place an order for lunch. It’s amazing to me sometimes how much stuff is going on in the background of my life.
Usually, I’m successful at holding this background hyperactivity at bay. It tends to quiet down when it doesn’t think there’s a chance in hell I’ll pay any attention or if I’m in the middle of a family crisis or I’m sick. At those times, it fades into a subtle whisper. However, as soon as I open the gate a little and take a peek, it roars into my life again, bold and dramatic. If I even steal little bits of time to write, my writer brain gets excited like a dog waiting to be taken for a walk, and it begins to throw ideas my way, hoping I’ll catch them.
When I open the door to my writing self, like a child, it wants to stay out and play. It is very self-centered, and wants lots of undivided attention, something I’m often in short supply of. Just as I get settled in and comfortably into a rhythm, something in my “real” life interrupts me, taking me away from my writing for long periods of time, making me lose track of what I was doing in the first place.
When I don’t write for an extended time, the frustration builds as illustrated by this little rant:
My dreams seem to be passing me by, a slow train filled with passengers who know where they’re headed, are happy to be together, and confident they will arrive on time. I stand on the edge of tracks wondering how I missed the connection. Air hits me in gusts as car after car whizzes past, the people inside unaware of me except as part of the scenery, because where they are going is important. In fact, they are stuffed to overflowing with their own self-absorption, which is why, I suppose, I cannot join them. My thoughts have been captured by the needs of others; I’ve willingly allowed myself to be taken prisoner by them, surrendering without a fuss, protesting only occasionally when the whim strikes me.
My house is too crowded, there is no place for my Muse to relax or settle in. She simply stops by once in a great while, knocks on the door, peeks in, shakes her head at the mess, and tells me she’ll come back another time.
Returning to the writing again takes discipline, though not because I have writer’s block. Far from it. For me, it is because I know the floodgates in my brain will open up, and I won’t be able to catch the ideas fast enough to make use of them. My writer brain is a leaky dike that I try to fix by jamming the holes with my neglect and refusal to play.
But I don’t ever really quit. I can’t. I need that part of myself as much as it needs me. I’m just learning to juggle stolen time better.
It truly is the journey, and not the destination that matters to me both in writing and in life. The process itself is what brings me pleasure; the knowledge that it will be published, while exciting, is secondary.
Books have always been good friends of mine, which is one of the reasons I would like to publish one. I want to return the favor that other writers have done for me. I often say to my writing students when they are feeling discouraged, “Someone wants to read your work as much as you want to write it.” Or I say, “If no one had the courage or confidence to write, the world would be without books.” This usually results in big smiles, because they realize that all books start out as ideas in the minds of writers, and they have just as much chance as anyone to get those ideas published. I tell myself the same thing when I wonder, after a trip to a warehouse sized bookstore, if the world needs another book.
The world will always need more books, and writers to write them.
