Proof that there is hope for humanity
We came out of the bookstore yesterday to find this on the truck.
The truck? It’s an ugly beater so the scratch isn’t exactly devastating.
Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg
I read Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones the first time in 1990. I was twenty and had just decided that I want to be a writer when I grow up. I had never imagined such a book: a writer writing about writing. It’s a simple concept, I know. But it blew my mind. I devoured every word and then went back and read it again. I was so full of hope and ambition and passion. I went out and bought myself a big beautifully bound journal in which I would practice my craft.
I went to a bustling cafe, sat down with my big steaming cuppajoe, got out my new pen and stared at the blank page while I waited for a jewel of inspiration. Nothing. Nothing in my head was worthy of that fancy journal. Crap. Drivel. Cliche. Not a single thought that tickled my brain or twitched the nib of my pen was good enough to commit to paper. How the hell do writers do this? Everyday?
Damn.
I missed the basic premise of the book: just do it. Don’t wait for it to be perfect, don’t repaint your walls to create the perfect writing room, don’t wait for the soundbites that everyone will still be quoting 50 years after you’re gone. Just write. You find the good stuff in editing.
Eighteen years later I reintroduced myself to an old passion that never died; the dream of making a living as a writer. It’s different this time. I write every day. Most of what write is crap, and that’s a beautiful thing. I celebrate the shit. I write in spiral bound notebooks that pile up and clutter our apartment. I write, I doodle, I daydream, I do timed writes, I write even when my head is completely empty. I write when I don’t know what to write. Sometimes I just write “I don’t know what to write” over and over until my pen writes something else. It’s not glamorous, it’s not inspirational, it’s not perfect. It’s just writing down the bones.
I re-read Writing Down the Bones and this time I got it. You have to be willing to be not perfect. I still have times when I find it critically important that I reorganize my files, or transcribe an entire spiral bound notebook into my computer, but on closer inspection that usually means I’m procrastinating and I’m afraid I might write crap. So then I sit down and write crap anyways.
Time Management
My dad had a theory, he called it the “Schwartz theory of gaseous expansion,” which stated the material in a room will always expand to fill the available space. No matter how big your room is, it will eventually feel cramped because there’s too much stuff in it.
I was thinking about that theory and how it could also be applied to time as I was out and about running errands with Mom. Now that I don’t have a regular 9-5 job, I theoretically have more available time. I’ve been in this position before and I remember noting the same occurrence – when you have more free time, your chores expand to fill your available time. It took ALL DAY yesterday to get the phone, cable and internet set up for mom.
There is no such thing as free time.
Shooting Dad
In the few short months between my trip to Alaska for a family reunion in August and my trip to Alaska for my father’s funeral in October, I read Sarah Vowell’s book Take the Cannoli: Stories From the New World
The first essay in the book was called “Shooting Dad,” a coming of age story of sorts: a progressive minded young woman grew up in the middle of nowhere in a house full of republican gun fanatics, yet finds her way home to a reconciliation with her father during an outing that involves his cannon. Hmmm, could be the story of my life.
My dad was famous around town as the guy with the Moose Gooser – A cannon that he kept at the house and packed up to take to every home game and most away games of the Palmer High School football team, the Palmer Moose. He was obsessive about that cannon and spent hours loading the shells by hand before each game.
I went to one game with him to watch him fire the cannon. That was this August and it was his last game. I read Sarah Vowell’s essay a month later and it was exactly what I needed to hear. No matter how extreme our political differences, he’s still my dad. And I love him – and I miss him.
The story is as funny as it is touching and well worth the time to read it.
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Life Changes
I have recently decided to quit my job and go back to school full time.
I can’t begin to tell you the relief that comes with that decision. The sensation of relief far out-weighs my terror over how we are going to get our bills paid, and each day I am more convinced that I have made the right decision.
This is going to be an interesting couple of years with both of us as full time students and little hope of any kind of financial aid. We’ll see what happens.
