A seasoned writer once told me, "You must be a precise combination of emotions, in order to write effectively. If you are too distressed or scattered, you will have trouble marshalling your thoughts into any useful point. But, if you are too settled and relaxed, you will have nothing real enough to warrent writing about."
At the time, I was neither a student nor a writer. But, I mulled over his words during the next several years, testing them against my own life experience, while ineluctibly blogging during my lunch breaks. It was the only opportunity I had to write, and I clutched it, instinctively.
That job ended when they found out that I was blogging. I stammeringly tried to explain that I only ever blogged when completely clocked out, and implored them to compare the time stamps on my browser history to when I punched out for lunch. Please!
But, no. My final check had already been cut, my desk had been cleaned out, and my replacement had been hired. I was escorted out of the building, only minutes after first being approached. I still don't know what rule I broke. My conscientious psyche was permanently dented.
I continued through life, excelling in other jobs, traveling abroad, keeping a secret journal. But, I never blogged again. I married into the military, found myself abruptly unemployable (we move too often), and instantly began to feel guilty because I wasn't writing. After all, now I finally had time. All the time I'd ever craved, in fact. In seven months, I lived in four different corners of the country, traveled through twenty-two states, and went nearly loopy from pacing hotel hallways. I had all the time in creation. And I quickly discovered that free time is not inherently motivating.
Purposeful labor gives momentum. Indulgence is terribly overrated.
Providentially, I sauntered past this same writer again, recently. A renowned author, he now teaches at my alma mater. I envy his current students. I had planned to major in writing, but the writing program at my college had collapsed, my sophomore year. So, I was rolled under umbrella of 'Literature', and spent my remaining two years doing more criticism than composition.
He raised a gray eyebrow, when I recounted his words from years before. "Did I say that? Really?" His academic, British accent is as precise as his reasoning. "That's rather brilliant." A wizened smile. "Well, I think that if you've thought that much about it, then you really ought to be writing."
I nodded, obediently.
But, ten minutes later, when I didn't have an international author to impress, my confusion tumbled out to my dear husband, who had also witnessed the conversation.
"When he said I should write - was it because I psychoanalyze everything? I mean, I do that - and writers sometimes do that. Or did he mean I should write about the necessary tensions, in writing? I should have asked!"
Kind husband replied that he wasn't sure either, but that he agreed I should be writing.
So then I was left to face my own blockades. Why was I struggling to write? Was it the fear of being criticized? Yes, partially - I hated that aspect of college. Was it the trauma of being fired? Yes, definitely - I was certainly scarred by that injustice.
But, I think perhaps it's a broader cause. Maybe it's not so circumstantial. Nearly all writers wrestle with the agony of not adequately capturing thoughts on paper, whether or not they've been fired for writing, or completed a corresponding degree.
Maybe it's angst which makes our writing 'real' enough to warrent reading. Admittedly, when I wrote swiftly and easily, I wrote tritely. Maybe this struggle is inevitable. Maybe that's why I avoid writing. Maybe it's the strain - being compelled, being constrained, wanting it all to be perfect. Maybe this is why so many writers drank themselves to death; maybe alcohol dulls the tearing of heart and mind. I wouldn't know. I don't drink. I just struggle.
But, maybe that's ideal. Maybe struggle is the precursor to good writing.
And maybe it would be less difficult to write than to keep supressing it.
At the time, I was neither a student nor a writer. But, I mulled over his words during the next several years, testing them against my own life experience, while ineluctibly blogging during my lunch breaks. It was the only opportunity I had to write, and I clutched it, instinctively.
That job ended when they found out that I was blogging. I stammeringly tried to explain that I only ever blogged when completely clocked out, and implored them to compare the time stamps on my browser history to when I punched out for lunch. Please!
But, no. My final check had already been cut, my desk had been cleaned out, and my replacement had been hired. I was escorted out of the building, only minutes after first being approached. I still don't know what rule I broke. My conscientious psyche was permanently dented.
I continued through life, excelling in other jobs, traveling abroad, keeping a secret journal. But, I never blogged again. I married into the military, found myself abruptly unemployable (we move too often), and instantly began to feel guilty because I wasn't writing. After all, now I finally had time. All the time I'd ever craved, in fact. In seven months, I lived in four different corners of the country, traveled through twenty-two states, and went nearly loopy from pacing hotel hallways. I had all the time in creation. And I quickly discovered that free time is not inherently motivating.
Purposeful labor gives momentum. Indulgence is terribly overrated.
Providentially, I sauntered past this same writer again, recently. A renowned author, he now teaches at my alma mater. I envy his current students. I had planned to major in writing, but the writing program at my college had collapsed, my sophomore year. So, I was rolled under umbrella of 'Literature', and spent my remaining two years doing more criticism than composition.
He raised a gray eyebrow, when I recounted his words from years before. "Did I say that? Really?" His academic, British accent is as precise as his reasoning. "That's rather brilliant." A wizened smile. "Well, I think that if you've thought that much about it, then you really ought to be writing."
I nodded, obediently.
But, ten minutes later, when I didn't have an international author to impress, my confusion tumbled out to my dear husband, who had also witnessed the conversation.
"When he said I should write - was it because I psychoanalyze everything? I mean, I do that - and writers sometimes do that. Or did he mean I should write about the necessary tensions, in writing? I should have asked!"
Kind husband replied that he wasn't sure either, but that he agreed I should be writing.
So then I was left to face my own blockades. Why was I struggling to write? Was it the fear of being criticized? Yes, partially - I hated that aspect of college. Was it the trauma of being fired? Yes, definitely - I was certainly scarred by that injustice.
But, I think perhaps it's a broader cause. Maybe it's not so circumstantial. Nearly all writers wrestle with the agony of not adequately capturing thoughts on paper, whether or not they've been fired for writing, or completed a corresponding degree.
Maybe it's angst which makes our writing 'real' enough to warrent reading. Admittedly, when I wrote swiftly and easily, I wrote tritely. Maybe this struggle is inevitable. Maybe that's why I avoid writing. Maybe it's the strain - being compelled, being constrained, wanting it all to be perfect. Maybe this is why so many writers drank themselves to death; maybe alcohol dulls the tearing of heart and mind. I wouldn't know. I don't drink. I just struggle.
But, maybe that's ideal. Maybe struggle is the precursor to good writing.
And maybe it would be less difficult to write than to keep supressing it.
* * *
"To do nothing at all is the most difficult thing in the world" - Oscar Wilde
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