Tag Archives: On Writing

{imported from Acquired Taste}

I think every writer secretly expects to sit down, open a word document, entitle it “my book” and begin. We assume that if we simply sit down and try, the words will come naturally. The book has already been written in our minds, now it’s just formalities. Unfortunately the formalities of writing are grave and terrible and treacherous. Writing should come with a warning label; side effects may include headache, nausea, self-loathing, and unemployment.

Fear is my most common roadblock; fear of failure, fear of change, fear of exposure, fear of being a waste of time. Often when I sit down to write I am paralyzed by the thought of my mother-in-law or second grade teacher reading a sentence such as “My sexual awakening started when…” It’s all I can think about. I have no plans to begin a sentence that way, but what if I do? What if it accidentally slips onto the page and it’s there for all to see: MY SEXUAL AWAKENING. Horrific.

So then I must be careful, very careful, and all of a sudden I cannot write anything for it might turn into something that resembles a sexual awakening and that would be very, very embarrassing. Anne Lamont wrote a book about writing, you might have read it. She says, “Write as if your parents are dead.” I repeat this to myself as much as I can, trying to ignore away the fact that part of the purpose of writing is to be read. Instead I try to focus on copying down the constant narration in my brain without too much self-editing or pause for panic.

I suppose writing is like any other art form, it takes discipline and it takes courage. This past weekend marked the beginning of a new year and a host of new resolutions around the globe for better bodies, better jobs, and more motivation to get. things. done. Of course all these promises are made mostly out of tradition and not truth. Our habits tend to define us and as winter trudges on, cookies will comfort and the couch will always be more comfortable than fixing that broken step, sending out another resume, or in my case—writing another page. But we persevere, hoping for new creations of ourselves, hoping that this year the difficulty won’t be in the details.

***

Every time I peruse the seductive aisles of Barnes & Noble, I am particularly tempted by the journal wall. They are quite attractive, albeit overpriced, with each releasing a different aura and purpose. Journals for travelers, for writers, for Jesus-lovers, for angry teenagers, for grandmas, for hipsters—you get the point. My personal favorites are the very old looking ones. I have made quite a few impulse purchases of these leather bound, hand- crafted, $30 and up blank books in an effort to feel inspired, appear like a real writer. I have always thought great writers must have diaries. Pages and pages of stories, memories, snapshots of their lives to reflect on, turn into best selling novellas, have placed on eBay by their greedy grandchildren after they are dead.

Unfortunately, I have never kept a diary; instead I house a library of very attractive, very neglected blank books. Journaling has always seemed like such a waste of time. I know what I did today, why do I have to write it down?

The closest I ever came to journaling was in second grade. I was given a small, hardbound diary with purple flowers and an orange cat on the cover. Inside I wrote stories about that cat and his many fantastic adventures. His name was Alex and twice he got hit by a car and survived because the angel Gabriel breathed life into his little cat mouth and saved him. He went to lots of tea parties with his beautiful best friend and hero, Katie (I am an oldest child).

In Middle School there was the occasional late night scribble about how terribly unhappy I was and about all the boys who didn’t like me, but they always ended up being burned or shredded and wrapped up in paper towels and buried at the bottom of the trashcan because of its top secret content. High School followed a similar course, though at that time I was actually busy and usually took out my teen angst by oversleeping.

Growing up a GeNET doesn’t help either; writing on an actual piece of paper is outdated, gives me hand cramps, and does not auto correct the word “definitely.”  It seems like a chore. I know this is all very tragic and sad, but it’s the truth. Last year I had the brilliant idea to buy a compact voice recorder to record my thoughts so that I wouldn’t have to scratch them down, but after about 30 seconds of awkwardly reviewing my day, I laughed and gave up

In truth, I think people who journal are probably the same people who scrapbook, and I fit into that crowd  like an Obama sticker on a Ford F-150. It’s just not me, and I should stop making it a New Year’s resolution. My greedy grandchildren will just have to make due with a pile of blank books and a few short stories about the adventures of Alex the Cat.