Writer's Block

I have really only experienced writing in two extremes. It has been the worst form of hard labor. Each word must be dragged out of me, weighing as heavy as any penal colony ball and chain. Or, it has been unstoppable. When the floodgates burst open, writing pours out, the words coming faster than I can scribble them down, arriving in complete, complex, fully shaped sentences that defy revision.

Not surprisingly, this has made writing an activity about which I feel some ambivalence. When I am "in the flow," writing is a joy; in fact, it is almost not a choice. The words have to come out, and if I don't get to write them down, I find that I am just mulling them over in my head anyway. Then, I might enter one of my "highly distracted" modes, where I am not very good company. We once had a friend who used a phrase I have found useful to describe this state - she would say that she  felt like she lived a complex inner life. So, I like to grab a computer (or actually, most of the time a pen and paper is preferable) and get the words out.

On the other hand, sometimes I am in the other state. I feel very sorry for myself if this is how I find myself as I face a deadline at work. I can stare at a blank page endlessly, unable to construct even a topic sentence, let alone a coherent outline. I have learned it is nearly pointless to force the words. I put it aside, let it percolate, and usually (thankfully!) the flow returns in time to finish the job, all in a rush.

Like any good writer, I can be extremely temperamental to match my writing moods. I recall (with no small amount of shame) a particularly petulant fit that I threw as a high school senior. I was trying to construct an essay for a college application, and I was definitely not in the flow mode. I moped and whined about the house in a manner that would have made any two-year-old proud.

As I look back on that time, I think about how I would have reacted to myself, had I been the mom in the situation. Probably, I would have joined the fray. After just ignoring for a while, I would have hopped in with all guns blazing, arguing and yelling right back at my child to shape up and get the job done. I find I have shamefully little patience for a child who is reacting to the stress of schoolwork with a tantrum. ("Just get it done already, and put us all out of our misery.")

My mom, on the other hand, true to form, never rose to my bait. Or, perhaps in this case, I should say, never stooped to my level. She also didn't just ignore me. She let me storm a bit, then sat down calmly beside me, as if I weren't screaming at her like my lack of inspiration was somehow her fault. I hollered at her that I couldn't think of a topic. She asked some calm questions and made some suggestions. I responded by telling her that all of her ideas were stupid and couldn't work. She suggested that I just write something, anything, to get started. I refused. She told me to just pick up the pen and keep it moving until I got an idea to write about. I knew she meant to write words, of course, but I sulkily filled the entire page with scribbling circles. Instead of then tossing the paper back in my face in disgust and getting back to her own pressing concerns (as I would do, now, for my own kids, I think), she blinked once, twice, then said evenly, "What have you drawn?"

"Nothing. I have nothing to write."

"What do you see when you look at this picture?"

(What is this? An inkblot test? I was even sulky in my private thoughts.) "I don't know."

"Then make something up. Tell me what it is."

And so it began. Through Mom's patience (and eerie ability to avoid or ignore personal affront), I had a topic for my essay within the hour. Then, "the flow" returned and the essay wrote itself. Even to this day, I confess feeling a bit guilty about that essay. It helped me earn some nice scholarships, but I always wondered if I could have ever written it myself, without the aid of my muse (my mom).



And so, I now find myself in the position of Mom. James (grade 6) is being pushed to his own limits this year with his English class. He has been really enjoying the class part of his accelerated English class. It seems that both his teacher and the other 20 or so 7th and 8th grade students are a fun-loving, quirky group with whom James loves to spend time discussing deep thoughts. However, he does not at all enjoy the homework part of this class. The load is certainly heavy, but not nearly as heavy as it seems to James, who finds it nearly impossible to sit and focus on a project for the extended periods of time often required. In addition to weekly assignments (reading, short writing exercises in response to readings, creative writing exercises, as well as grammar and vocabulary exercises), James has had to write several longer papers this year. There was a short story (he ended up with about 1400 words),  a personal narrative, a descriptive essay, a sonnet, a blues song, and now a research paper/explanatory essay based on a family history project..

A few times, I have been the designated hand-holder for James while he stares at a blank piece of paper, trying to figure out where to begin on one of these longer writing assignments. Frustration turns to anguish as he struggles to choose a topic and eke out a few words. I ache for him. I ache for myself, through echoes of my own parallel moments of stalled topic-choosing. And then I am stumped. I don't have my own mom's gift - to get something out of nothing. I write when writing is given to me - the flow. How do I help someone else learn to write on command when I have never learned to do it myself?

And so I sit a quiet vigil with him, when I can. I suggest ideas where I can, but often fail to bite my tongue when he lashes out at me, the helper, just as I once lashed out at my own imperturbable mom. I pray that through James's perseverance, his nascent love of writing will eventually blossom rather than be squashed. I wish for James to find the flow for himself; to experience the joy of sometimes getting the words just right. And I wish, now as ever, as I work through this latest step in my parenting journey, that I still had Mom here to walk this road with me.

"No one will write your poems for you..."

Last week at book club, we discussed No Clock in the Forest by Paul Willis. (Aside: If you happen to follow the link to check out the book at Amazon.com, don't be put off by the cover picture. It was the one thing our book club unanimously agreed on - terrible! Not at all right for this book. It almost kept me from reading the book. In fact, the author himself bemoaned this cover art in an interview.) Willis is a professor of English at Westmont College in Santa Barbara, California. His primary writing genre is poetry, although he did write a set of four novels, of which this was the first.

During Book Club, we read and discussed an interview Willis once gave about his writing career, and the line that stuck with me is what I have used for the title of this post - "I finally realized that no one would write my poems for me." Willis was commenting on all of the competing arenas in his life - teaching, committee work, family obligations, cleaning his office, whatever. But then he recognized, a bit profoundly (at least from my perspective), that of all his obligations, what he could write (create) was uniquely his. If he didn't make time to do it himself, it would never happen. That caused him to re-prioritize his time.

As I have mulled that over for a few days, I realized that it spoke into my soul a bit. I haven't been posting much to this blog since the school year started in September, but I have scraps of paper where I have started an idea and never returned to it. I have opening paragraphs for posts written in my head, half of those now forgotten. And no one will write those things for me. I suppose there is hubris in this - who says they need to get written? But I feel them bottled up in me, wanting to be written. So there it is. Perhaps I need to think about prioritizing my own time to allow for me to blog more. And so it is that I find myself typing at 11:15 PM in a quiet house, where everyone else is sleeping. (Although, in a strange meta-blog style, I am writing about how I ought to be writing more. Let's see if the creative juices still flow long enough for me to find any of those random scraps of paper and actually blog.)

Helen turns 2!

The girls in new matching nightgowns from Grandma Di.

Bread with Jam. Or, really, Jam with Bread. Helen wakes up to jam, a favorite of hers at age 2.

I am 10 days behind schedule, but Helen turned 2 and I thought it deserved a blog post. Today is my "at home all day" with the kids day, so I am able to catch up on this. Thanks to Grandma Di for about half of these photos. My camera work that day was way subpar (and apparently much of it was done by persons under age 9).

How Helen chose to dress herself for the day. Seemed about right for Feb. 4 in Michigan. (Prepared for anything.)

If the swim suit doesn't work out, you can always switch to Mom's boots, instead.

Birthday dinner with grandparents. 

The girl who took no nap all afternoon needed a 20-minute power-nap after dinner to charge up for cake and presents.

I'm two!

Video-phone-call over Skype with Uncle Jeff, Aunt Shannon, Socha. What a different world Helen will grow up in!

With her new "pup-dog" from Great-Aunt Sue and Great-grandma Helen. This is a common place to find her dog ever since - tucked firmly under her arm by his neck.

See the resemblance with John?

James helping her play her musical Happy Birthday card.

My four munchkins.

Grandpa Tom and Helen share a laugh.

Grandma Di gets to enjoy the strangle-hold.

Grandpa Tom and Maggie.

Sweet, sleeping babe.

New, noisy toy from Grandma Di and Grandpa Glen entertains  more than just Helen.