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.

Christmas Eve Photos

Family Photo, after church on December 23

Setting up is hard to do with 6 of us

Enjoying a weekend pre-Christmas visit from Jenny's cousin Elizabeth, who drove up from Pittsburgh.

Two of the James, in Grand Blanc on Christmas Eve

The clan

John really liked this remote control "dirt bike"

After Grand Blanc, we swung over to Davison for a visit

At Meijer Gardens on December 23

Christmas Day

If you were a fly on our wall this Christmas morning, these are the things you might have heard and seen...

And then, we added children.

Waking up sleepy-head Dad.

It's a team project.

But watch out for when Dad is just playing 'possum. He might fight back.

John (age 5), in a voice of disbelief that would have made any teenager proud: "Underwear? Really?"

John (5) to his siblings, who had given him a Monster Truck game for the Wii: "Thank you! Thank you!"
Margaret (8) in reply: "Unh. Ok, no more hugging!"

Helen (22 months): ________________________ (That represents dead silence, as she methodically consumed two squares of Ghiradelli chocolate from her stocking for breakfast.)

Sorry, Mom. Can't smile. I have chocolate to eat.

James (11), in a voice of resignation (tinged with a bit of pride in having guessed the contents of the package): "May I open my socks now?"

Nope. James considered, and these were definitely not socks. (A new book light from his brother and sister.)

Margaret (8): "Oh no! Helen has finger paints? Bye bye nice new purple bathroom walls."

She liked the Harry Potter Wii game from her brothers. Can you tell?

 
Helen (22 months): "Hey! That's mine!" (So proud that this is one of her clearest full sentences yet.)

Most of Helen's presents were "recycled" - gifts we already had in the house, refurbished with new batteries as needed. She seemed fine with that. Although, her absolute favorite was the gift she had picked out for herself while shopping with me last week - a new ball.

John (5): (SHRIEK!) Thank you, Mommy! I've always wanted one! (And so, it begins. We gave in on the electronics and gave him a Nintendo DSi. Price is not so bad now that the DS3 came out. And now we may have to surgically remove it from his hands. Hoping we can all resist the temptation to let him carry it everywhere, joining the ranks of little siblings everywhere we go - kids sports events at school, doctors' waiting rooms, etc. - who are sitting comatose, glued to their portable game device or parents' smartphone instead of watching the world, talking to their parent, and generally learning through healthy boredom.)

Close-up of the kids. James was trying to look odd, because that is what 11-year-olds like to do. But, a photo with 3 out of 4 smiles captured is a success in my book. 

How to converse with a curious kindergartener

My conversation with 5-year-old John today while driving home from James's middle school Christmas concert:

"Mom, how sharp is a steak knife?"

"Um, I don't know. There are all different kinds of steak knives, and they aren't all the same sharpness."

"But what kinds are there?"

"Well, there are serrated and smooth, and different brands, and..I don't know. Why do you want to know?"

"I just want to know how sharp a steak knife is."

"Well, I can't really tell you, John. I don't know a way to describe sharpness." I was now getting a bit frustrated. I was trying to drive home in the dark, in the rain, with tired kids. Why was I having this conversation, anyway? In a flash of annoyance, I answered randomly, "Seven, John. They are seven sharp."

"Whoa!" His delighted giggle was surprised and immediate. "That is awesome!"

Sweet Mom Moment

Helen is at that age where I can be stunned at any moment with how much she has learned, and how quickly. I think she continues to be least "talkative" of any of our 4 kids were at comparable ages, but she certainly does communicate just fine. She uses just a few favorite words often, punctuated by new or occasional words for clarity, and all well-seasoned with expressive pointing and gestures.

She has been adding language, I know, because she now clearly understands so much of what we say. Just in the last few days, she will often repeat words after you, whereas even last week she would refuse to utter new sounds, even to blankly repeat them. Now, she repeats them and acts as if she has always known them and wonders why you are asking her to say them now.

Today, she had another small language breakthrough that was fun to witness. We were sitting in a small lobby, waiting for a car repair. I had brought a bag of picture books to pass the hour. The one she chose today was a chunky, oversized board book with few words. Each page had photographs of baby faces, labeled with a common emotion. Sleepy. Angry. Shy.

"Helen, look, these babies feel Sad."

"Sad." She repeated this after me, quite clearly.

"Here are some happy babies."

"Hop! Baby Hop!"

"Yes, the babies feel happy."

Our scintillating conversation went on in this vein for a while. Then she got bored and asked to nurse. She plopped sideways in my lap, snuggled her head into the crook of my arm, and requested, "Ide!" Then, unusually, instead of wriggling impatiently or pulling at my shirt, she paused, looked up at me, and said, "Baby hop!"

I thought a minute. "Helen, do you mean that you feel happy now?"

She silently grinned and nodded enthusiastically. What more could a mom really want from a day?