Pen-y Thoughts

Here’s another recent practice writing inspired by Natalie Goldberg’s book, Writing Down the Bones:  Freeing the Writer Within.  (Did I mention that I liked that book?)  Again, I found myself writing in the car.  I didn’t have much stamina at this point — fussy children, radio playing, portable DVD players blaring the Holly Hobby movie in my ear, my husband calling out license plates from various states for me to record.  It’s a brief entry, but interesting.  Hope you like it!

Why do I want to write?

I love to write.  I love the feel of the pen’s graceful dance on the page and the lively hopping of my fingertips on the keyboard.  The flow of my ideas and words as they pour from my mind.  The sense of reflection as I stare at and reread my product.  I am challenged each time, like a hunter or trapper, to capture the moment, the essence.  My writing is a communication to the world.  It is a connection with my fellow readers, writers, mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, teachers, — with humanity.  My writing is a presentation of myself.  I stand bare before the world, awaiting judgment.

I’m loving my spiral notebook. I took the suggestion of Natalie Goldberg, one of my newest mentors, and picked up a cheap, basic spiral notebook to use as a writer’s notebook. Why? She suggests we avoid choosing a writer’s notebook “worthy of the great American novel”, but rather, select a notebook that will permit you to write junk. It relieves pressure! I’m loving it.

I’m also loving her suggestion to “keep your hand moving”. It is an amazingly emancipating experience.

Allow me to share another piece of “junk”. This was something I scribbled out in the car on my way home from a road trip to Louisiana to visit my grandmother.

Going Home

It’s amazing how quickly you go from enjoying a trip to ready for it to be over. I’m not sure when it happened — sometime on the endless stretch of road. Or perhaps at the most recent stop at a dirty fast food restaurant with abhorrible service and sticky floors. Perhaps it was later — as my weary body began to grow increasingly homesick for my bed, my soft, worn sheets, my own cool pillow, my own shower and closet full of clothes. Perhaps, I most miss the effortless ease of my kitchen — the homey snacks and familiar meals. I miss my desk — cluttered as it may be. But it’s my clutter. I can’t wait to see Bo — though I’m sure he’ll hold a grudge for a while; he, too, weary from his own, sad adventure. As the car carries us toward our familiar destination, I begin to realize it is the rhythm and routines I may miss the most. Awakening in a dark, cool bedroom. Emerging into a sunny, cheery den, greeted by precious, tired faces. My day driven by my own agenda — on my own (relative) terms. My children resting peacefully in their own beds & napping places. Lunch at the kitchen table — of coffee table. Solitude. I haven’t been alone in a week! Perhaps that is the secret. I can’t wait to be at home again.

It may be junk — but it’s my junk.

Keep reading and writing!