“No blogs?”, “Did you stop writing?”, “Too busy for your blog?”
I have been absent from my blog space for the last 100 days. And no, I did not stop writing. In fact, I have been writing at a breakneck pace for over three months. My audience shifted from the blogosphere to writers from all over the world.
When I entered a 100-day writing challenge, I expected to whip off a few blogs while churning out chapters of a book. There is an idiom for that sort of optimism: wearing rose colored glasses.
Here was the mantel set before me: 3,000 words per week, due by midnight each Friday. Because nothing has changed at my core in the last 35 plus years, come Wednesday the scramble began. I continue to be a last-minute crammer.
3,000 words are double the count of a standard personal essay or opinion piece in a magazine.
The college essay limit is a paltry 650 words. As a College Counselor, I revel in prompting my students through the college essay. They approach it as though it were Mt. Kilimanjaro.
The average word count for the President’s State of the Union Address is 4,000 words. It takes a team of speechwriter’s months to prepare.
Five weeks: 45,000 words, and thoughtful critique of 750 pages of other people’s work. That’s about fifty pages per week and it was time-consuming. I am a better writer because of it.
I am often asked, “Why do you write?”
It’s a question I’ve heard since I started to blog and because I am writing a memoir. I suppose the subtext goes something like, “Why would you share personal details of your life?”
Aha…. good question!
I write to rumble with my life; to grapple with grief and loss. To find balance through examination of my soul. I write because it gets the swirling stuff inside of me to the outside of me. Once released it loses its power over me.
Before I reached middle-age I had no intrinsic sense of grief. My grandparents passed in the natural order of time, at ripe old ages. Those were sad moments, but they did not paralyze me.
My mother died when I was 43. On that day, the scaffolding of my life began to dissemble, piece by piece. Soul sucking, enormous grief became my constant companion. The losses mounted and eleven years later, as I prepared for the death of my dear Uncle Bobby, I began to write.
Some people run, bike, do yoga, or seek therapy to manage life. Others paint, knit, sculpt, or get lost in their music. Some souls bury their hurt with a “move on” sort of bravado. They hold tight to the foolish notion that an unexamined ache will heal itself.
Wizard of Oz analogies are never far from my grasp. At 50, I found myself skipping along the Yellow Brick Road. In the wake of relentless grief, I found love and it was glorious. I smiled and sighed in the palm of it. It felt like home. The soul yearns for serendipity and for a year of my life I felt as though I had found it.
In my happiness, I forgot an important fact about the Yellow Brick Road; there is a Haunted Forest at its end and it is harrowing. One moment, I was skipping and laughing and, as I turned a corner, it took me by surprise. Before I knew it trees started heaving apples at me, and a witch appeared and tried to set my straw aflame. All the while, menacing monkeys ruled the darkened skies.
I ignored the caution signs posted along the way and that tormented me. It was my hardest grappling. Writing helped me find the answers.
When I look back at my early writing, written when I had lost all semblance of myself, it makes me ache for the me of then. When I reread early chapters of my book, I am astounded by my narrow perspective. I weep for the woman who allowed pebbles to cripple her.
I am rewriting from a new place where there are no heroes or villains. A place where I no longer try to forgive myself for what I did not know. Rather, I forgive myself for dismissing instinct; losing faith in my ability to navigate. I forgive myself for accepting less than I deserved and allowing another to judge my worth. As a friend implored me then, “You don’t have to set yourself on fire to keep someone else warm.” Indeed.
In remarkable fashion, at the nadir of my sadness, another man inserted himself in my life. I scrambled to rise to the arrival of my 88-year-old Uncle Bobby. I had no idea that in his weakening I would find my strength. The eighteen months I spent by his side exhausted and restored me. He became my muse, and the writing of it made the hard work of elder-care bearable.
My articulation of the universal experience of love and loss resonated and that moved me. It was a great joy to write about my Uncle, to give voice to his history. I felt like his personal curator and it was an honor to capture his remarkable spirit in words. My journey with Uncle Bobby helped me find my writer’s voice.
More than therapy, friends, or even Uncle Bobby, writing escorted me out of The Haunted Forest.
I write to rumble, to figure, to navigate.
During the 100-day challenge, other rumbling writers encouraged my story through constructive critique. They inspired me with their own dedication to the craft.
One wrote to me, “We have little in common. I am a 35-year-old bachelor on the other side of the country. Yet, when I read your chapters, I find myself contemplating my own life. I want to read your writing with a glass wine and my feet set on an ottoman.”
There is a writer who does the same for me. A dog-eared copy of her collection of essays, This Is A Happy Marriage, sits on my bedside table. Ann Patchett’s soul is present in her writing. She is achingly honest and when I read her work, she feels like a friend.
I write because I hope that one day, on the night of a full moon when sleep is but a dream, a struggling soul will reach for a dog-eared copy of my book on her bedside table… and not feel so alone.
7 thoughts on “On Writing…”
Love this piece, very prophetic describing the journey that writing can bring, with or without those rose colored glasses…perfect.
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I will look forward to that book. Thank you.
My thanks for spending time with my writing
The most beautiful part of this lovely honest blog is the writing about why you write. Of course I have known from other blogs of yours about much of the grief and sadness you have gone through.
But here you have shown the essence of what writing means to you and perhaps to many. others. You have put into words what many writers cannot quite explain.My favorite parts are the paragraph that begins with “I am a better writer for it” and the paragraphs that follow. Your honesty in talking about looking back at your writing from before is scary for many, who prefer to just move on. And your description of how you are writing from a new place is wonderful.
And as always, your thoughts are expressed in an original and lyrical language’
Hw can I possibly describe the beauty of the last three paragraphs. You have talked about the many things that writing does for you. But here you open your soul and let us see your deepest hope. Kay
Kay, I can’t tell you how touched I am by your thoughtful comments. Thank you
Kudos to the love of writing…it is the essence of the life that we breathe. Loved, loved this blog, not for the in depth deep dive of it, but for the purity and proposal of what life is all about. Thank you Ellen…especially for the plug to my rose colored glasses
Thank you! It is a magnificent gift to my life.
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