Wednesday October 27

I think maybe I need to back pedal just a little.

It might be a bit much to say "I love to write." I'm not sure that's really true. I write because, short of talking to myself, it's the best way I have of taking my mind's constant feed of thought and worry and revelation (sometimes all in the same moment!) and giving it a place to live. This works for me in a couple of ways: First, because I've learned from experience that putting my pain, stress, anxiety and fears on paper (or in pixels) actually does give it a lot less power. Episodes that have given me nightmares -- actual nightmares - were tamed through the exercise of writing it out. When my daughter, at the age of not quite two, was bitten in the face by a dog (and not just any dog, mind you, my mother-in-law's dog) I reeled for days about what could have happened. Despite all assurances that the animal would "never" turn on her I knew, absolutely knew in the marrow of my bones, that it was coming. But for a lot of very regrettable reasons I pushed that maternal certainty aside and watched in horror as it happened. It was one of the single worst moments of her young life and thinking about it still causes me to feel terrible, even two years later.

For almost a week after the bite my mind wandered to thoughts about what could have happened, how the dog could have mauled her, destroyed her, killed her. (And indeed it could have, because a two year old doesn't stand a chance against an 80 pound Akita with a point to make.) It didn't matter that she was fine, still unafraid of that animal or any other... the inner dialogue continued to spin, spin, spin until I was either in tears or physically ill.

And then I wrote it out. Took the 26 letters of my language and strung them together into words and phrases and paragraphs detailing the worst of my fears and the brutality of my anger. It was awful, really. Giving those thoughts a place to live was a little like giving birth, metaphoically speaking, because I had to push the emotion out with a force I didn't know I had until I needed it, and the only thing that would make the uncontrollable pain go away was the deliberate pain of putting the nightmares into words. And when I was done, just like that, so was the anxiety. Poof. The power was gone.

Of course not every writing exercise is meant to cleanse my mind from harmful or burdensome thoughts. Sometimes it is to remember, like the writing I do about my parents, and sometimes it is to process, like the writing I do about mothering, and sometimes... well sometimes, it is just to make room for more thoughts. A little mental "spring cleaning," if you will: Out with last year's themes and in with the new! (My closets would do well with similar attention, but it ain't gonna happen, I'm sure.)

So writing for me is an exercise, and a helpful one, but it is an effort to be sure. Writing, in and of itself, is essentially just squiggles on a page generated by strokes of a pen (or, in my case, clicks on a keyboard). What makes the exercise worthwhile though, are the things that give writing life: The power and nuance of words, the cadence and rhythm of sentences, the structure and progression of paragraphs, and finally, in the end, the journey of the story that was told. Memoir, fiction, editorial -- it doesn't really matter. They all rely on the beauty and truth of language, and language somehow, magically, transcends time and circumstance to connect us. Whether it's with one or millions of readers, the writer creates a union based on an amazing, timeless, mysterious, intangible thing called language.

And that, to be completely honest, is what I love. Writing is just the train I hop to take me there.

Monday October 25

On Writing Well. A book with which I should become acquainted. A book I had never heard of until I stumbled across it (how, again?) during some late-night web crawl at the NPR website, of all places.

So now you know two things about me: I am a writer* but I'm not familiar with the seminal work on "writing well," and I'm not an intellectual with a bent toward government-sponsored talk radio. Continue at your own risk.

William Zinsser, I learned that fateful night, is the author of this classic guide for writers. Narcissist that I am my curiosity was piqued by the mention of a new chapter discussing memoirs. Zinsser is also the author of a book entitled Writing About Your Life, which I suspect would also be a smart addition to the ever-growing list of titles in my queue.

Two things I know about William Zinsser: He's a writer and he's right up my alley, because the titles of his two books leave little doubt about the subject matter. And I don't like surprises when it comes to subject matter. (Seriously, I don't.)

Tonight as I write this I turn (far too often) to Google. I like to have my facts straight, get the real scoop before I lay on my witticisms or profound truths. I think there is a comfort in knowing things, knowing what someone has proven before you without going through the effort of the risk of discovering it yourself. I am a master at collecting these facts and synthesizing them, creating something "new" without truly creating anything new at all. And so in the last five minutes I've learned that Mr. Zinsser has his own website (williamzinsserwriter.com), has actually authored eight books, is a non-fiction writer and part-time jazz pianist, and might've been a hottie back in the 40's while he served in the Army (hubba hubba). I've also learned that boy, howdy -- do I have a lot to learn about this whole writing business.

And here are two more things you now know about me: I am a compulsive Googler and WWII-era, bookish Army sergeants incite me to utter things like "hubba hubba."

But what's more important to know about me is this: I have a lot to learn about this whole writing business. And that fact, true as it may be, is the one thing that will paralyze me for sure. I can -- no, I will -- guarantee my failure right here, right now, on this Monday evening in October by suffering under the weight of what I don't know. Every unknown has been for me an ending, often before there was ever hope of a beginning. With few exceptions (only two that I can think of) my life has been one sure bet after another. One boring, safe, tepid sure bet after another, very much like the facts I crave and that are brought to me nightly courtesy of Google (copyright 2010, all rights reserved).

Lately I've started to wonder what I've been missing, though I don't travel too far down this path because it's not particularly helpful. Reminiscing over opportunities that never were is even more pathetic than missing the opportunity in the first place, wouldn't you say? But I do spend time now wondering about the chances still left to take. Is writing one of them? Who's to say. There's a great likelihood that these words will be seen by no one but me and those trusted few whose opinions, feedback, and insights I value. Most people, even those who count themselves as Writers (capitalized for authority!) on their tax returns (a sacred testament indeed!), never know such great success as Anne Lamott, Haven Kimmel, Elizabeth Gilbert or, yes, William Zinsser.

What I believe about these successful writers is that they must have done at least these two things: At some point they took a risk, and in taking that risk they turned away from the safety of facts and the comfort of someone else's thoughts, and they created something new.

Tonight at my desk, surrounded by a half-finished Tinkerbell costume, a recipe for falafel, a stack of expired coupons and countless preschool art projects, I don't have aspirations of retiring on the royalties from my Great American Memoir. Tonight at my desk I am happy to have carved out these thirty minutes to think and write and dream, and I'm happy that the Tinkerbell costume, which yesterday nearly cost me my sanity and my four-year-old her life, is almost finished.

And now you know: I keep a messy desk. I am a very impatient seamstress.

Oh, and this: I like to write.

*We'll see about that, now won't we?