Writer’s block…I’ve got mega writer’s block right now. I keep on skimming over ideas and discard them.
Nah…I don’t feel like writing about my mom.
Nah….I don’t feel like writing about current events.
Nah…I don’t feel like writing about events at school today.
Nah…I don’t feel like writing about my dog, or my kids, or my home, or even me.
I’m worn, right now. Last Tuesday, I took a day off because I just felt worn, almost like Bilbo said in The Fellowship of the Rings, “I feel like butter spread too thin over bread.” That’s me. I know I probably got the line wrong…please forgive me Tolkien-its.
It’s been a lovely week saturated with joys and successes. I’ve navigated through another round of success in my quest for personal changes. I learned that my the VCU admissions officers think I should be a professional writer because they really like my letters of recommendation.
I’ve managed to write every day for…a bunch of days.
Writing….I love to write. I love to listen to the light tapping of my fingers hitting the keyboard. I love it when the right word settles into my mind and I push it out across the keyboard and onto the screen and it looks so satisfying in its perch on the sentence. I really don’t understand why my students hate writing. It’s wonderful and cathartic. True, it’s frustrating. Like right now. I just don’t have the vibe or rhythm of writing. I would rather close the computer and curl up in bed right now. But I must write. I must write. I must write.
All the writers I have heard speak or have met say the same thing. “Write daily.” Everyday, I should be writing about a thousand words, and in the last three weeks, I have achieved this goal (with the exception of the poem about the Jordanian pilot). And I’m proud of myself. Even today, I had actually already posted but I took it down. It was about cattiness and I kept on feeling like God was thumping me on the head that I was not being nice. I would rather live with my sense of awkward morals than the knowledge that I had stooped to a petty level. I might be a bit mean and hurtful…but I really do try to squash that side of my personality.
But I’m talking about writing…or, rather, I’m writing about writing.
It’s such a destructive love. Daily, I am immersed in the words and sentences and languages of fabulous writers. Daily, I read the greats and I see that I am so far away from the greats. Yes, this is when I have to pull myself up by the bootstraps and just keep moving forward as opposed to wallowing in writer’s-pity. I know that I can write. I know that I have a talent for writing.
But it’s so damn hard, at times, to find the motivation to tap the keys or wiggle the pen in a logical manner that would enable words to unfurl across the page/screen and etch a memory into a quasi-permanent status. And, I have to admit, I am a sucker for when people like my posts. It feels soooo good…this has got to be what make addicts go back to their drugs.
I love writing poetry. I don’t do it that frequently anymore. Too often, I will get that magnificent line or image when I’m in the middle of teaching, taking a shower, or driving. Regardless, it’s when I am nowhere near a pen or in a position where trying to write would literally put me in danger. For a while, I used to keep a composition notebook in my car and would dictate to the Boy. That wonderful young man, he would try so hard to keep up with a mother who was living in two worlds simultaneously.
If reading is entering into another universe, writing is the living in dual realities that are fighting with one another. Sometimes, when I’m writing and a character is experiencing a sad or difficult situation, I will feel my face literally drawn into the emotion the character is feeling. Talk about awkward moment when my family or friends catch me with this horrific facial expression with no real stimulus to have put it there. A couple of times, I had to leave the room because I was starting to cry…because the characters were crying.
Which leads me to another point. I’m not crazy. I really am not. It’s just that, when I’m writing, I suspend who I am and follow the characters through their journeys and feel their emotions so that I can explain things to the reader more clearly. I’m not a writer anymore. I’m a traveller narrating an incredible, cerebral experience.
Recently, I have found that I am identifying myself more and more as a writer. I realize that, in some ways, it has made me a better AP Lit teacher because I feel like I have a little insight into the writers I teach. I know this sound narcissistic and I humbly ask your forgiveness. However, I feel like I have a whole new language and code to understanding what is going on in the literature and, maybe, even the writers’ minds.
On my mountain, at the very top, is a fairly flat rock that is close to the size of a small room…it is here that I dream about my future home with my future office. Yes, I know I wrote about this earlier. Bear with me. Or is bare with me. I don’t know…both words are pretty and since I do have a bear or two that probably lives on my mountain, the pun works well here.
Regardless, I call this area “Writer’s Rock.” My husband calls it the rock on top of the mountain. I don’t care what he calls it. All I know is that no matter where I go, the words will always follow.