This is harder than it looks.
What do I write? When do I find time? How do I juggle my life — responsibilities, children, job, house, husband, energy, everything — with my interests and dreams? I’d love to be a writer…but I also want to practice French, and read a book, and watch a movie, and go to the beach, and work out. When the balls are in the air, which one would you drop?
It’s been a while, yes. Have I written? Yes. Have I published? No. (Hence…this is a writer’s notebook.) Flaw number one with this venue: If an entry is not published, readers lose interest. But, realistically, a writer rarely publishes!
Here’s a thought. My sister-in-law, and fellow budding writer, introduced me to my latest read, Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within, by Natalie Goldberg. I’m loving it. It has already been freeing, and I’m only on page 30. Originally published in 1986, I worried, as I read an excerpt online, that the advice might be somewhat dated. She spoke of using pen and paper vs. typewriters. WHAT? A TYPEWRITER???
“I have not worked very much with a computer, but I can imagine using a Macintosh, where the keyboard can be put on my lap, closing my eyes and just typing away. The computer automatically returns the carriage. The device is called “wrap-around.” You can rap nonstop. You don’t have to worry about the typewriter ringing a little bell at the end of a line.”
Goldberg’s description of a typewriter is very vivid to me, summoning the sound of my mother typing away at an intimidating speed on the keys of our old, heavy typewriter. It wore its own custom dust cover as it waited patiently in the corner for its call to duty. When the need arose for an updated resume, business letter, book report, or research paper, Mother would resurrect her trusty friend, place it in the place of honor at the head of the dining room table and position herself properly for the task at hand. The noise from the keys and metal sphere laiden with letters, symbols and various characters busily striking the page would drown out the sound of television and conversations.
The primitive Mac she refers to is also familiar. I see the beat-up, dusty machines in my first classroom. Monitor and CPU shared a shell, with only a separate keyboard and mouse. Their tall, lean, gray plastic cases and often monochromatic monitors. Imagining these dinosaurs as new opportunities for a writer causes me to question this author’s lessons. Does this book really have something to offer me?
I quickly changed my mind. Goldberg relates writing to running, something else with which I’ve struggled. She speaks to me as she writes of the practice involved in writing. Her words strike a familiar chord with me as she suggests writers create a list of topics for the days think you have nothing to say. (Practice what you teach, Jenny!) Her talk of discipline and setting goals are very applicable to my situation.
As a good student, I followed her directions when she prompted me to “Sit down right now. Give me this moment. Write whatever’s running through you.” I heeded her advice and kept my hand moving, without crossing out, without considering spelling, punctuation, grammar. I tried not to think or get logical. I tried to allow myself to lose control of my writing, prevent my mind from holding me back or stalling. I did not censor myself. I gave myself permission to write something bad…to write junk.
I wrote.
“In this moment I’m listening to my family talk, Max & Ruby on TV and the delicate, light clicking of my dog’s nails on the linoleum floor in my kitchen. A small light shines brightly at my eye from across the den as Laura shines a mini-Mag light at me. Jeff and Jon are packing for their hiking week. “I see you, Mommy.” “Come with me, Laura,” Emma merrily calls as she hops, skips out of the room. Bo scratches at the door, anxiously awaiting his outside endeavors. The merry music of the children’s cartoon is reminiscent of earlier, more wholesome eras. Emma and Laura are like Max & Ruby in many ways. Sweet. Innocent. Well-meaning. Exploring. Fun-loving. Caring. How lucky I am. Their love for their family is so pure and sweet. As I hear them talk to their Uncle Jonathan, my heart aches fort he loss they feel each time distance pulls them away from loved ones. Geography is a bitch. Children, in many ways, are such victims of adult lives. They innocently try to help their grown-ups with any chore — with little thanks & often scoldings. They seek love and attention when they need it — many times to be put off due to chores, responsibilities, duties, fatigue, distraction, selfishness, etc. We, no matter how thankful we are, can not always be grateful and appreciative enough. Those nasty “little things” that masquerade as mountains can tear holes of space in our relationships, be we uncareful. We must keep wide-eyed. Preserve our innocence. Maintain our quest for love, attention, closeness, security, connections. to be a child again. Make the big things big and the little things disappear. How I wish to learn this from my little people.”
I have not reread this until this moment. I restrained myself. I did not correct errors as I typed. I did not revise or add thoughts to improve. I was surprised to see my handwriting barely legible in places — with many a “t” uncrossed and “i” undotted. After I frustrated with the delay in writing and thinking as I turned the first page, I learned to disregard the margins, delaying and reducing the interruptions.
This was my first attempt at freeing myself to write bad stuff. It was fun. I loved it. I look forward to writing more. Just as at the end of a good run, I feel I could write forever. I look forward to jumping on the treadmill once again, opening up, and running free.
