writing bravery

My birthday is a few days away and I have decided to give myself a present. I have decided to write. I was going to say that I would give myself the time to write, that I would take the time from my busy day, stealing it away from my family and other responsibilities but the truth is I have always had the time to write. If I said to my husband and the girls that I was going to take a few hours to sit at the computer to write and please don’t bother me they would say “great!” and my sweetheart would probably quietly refill my coffee cup with only a briefly distracting kiss on the neck. If I got up an hour early every morning, or took an hour after dinner every night or otherwise scheduled daily writing time, they would be on board, enthusiastically on board. So, I don’t have to give myself the gift of time; my family would give that gift happily. What I need to gift to myself is bravery. 

Writing scares me silly. I doubt my abilities, doubt the value of my voice. I worry what people close to me will think, even those generous and loving supporters who would rally behind my efforts. Will I be discovered to be a faux intellectual fraud? Will my version of events be challenged, or cause pain? Will I disappoint myself when, after three days I no longer have anything to say?

I’ve been back on track with daily writing for about a month now, after a long silence. When I look back on the difficulties I had this year I think there has to be a connection between my struggle to understand and deal with the complexities of life around me and my lack of writing. Writing is thinking for me. And that in itself makes it scary to share. Writing is thinking, processing, coming to an understanding. There is value in sharing this process. But sharing also inspires me to polish it up, to make my thinking clear to other than my own cluttered brain. In my job, as in most, clear communication is crucial (alliteration just plain fun). Giving myself the gift of writing, and sharing my writing, will help me in the process of becoming a better teacher and choosing the path to follow. 

But its much more personal than that. Writing is a spiritual process, and here is a statement that requires lots of that bravery I mentioned so I hope my birthday gift arrives on time. Writing is spiritual. I have long been reluctant to talk about my spiritual journey with anyone, have barely recognized the existence of a journey. It's a topic that makes me feel like a new-age poser even though I admire several writers who took the time to tell about their own journeys, and gained so much from their sharing. Spirituality is deeply tied to my thoughts on writing.

I grew up Catholic and we went to church every Sunday and “day of obligation.” I attended Catholic School through 8^th grade and in high school, as a sort of self-imposed penance for some missteps, I taught Sunday School to young kids. My family was “openly religious” but we didn’t really talk about spirituality. There were a few religion classes at school, especially with Sister Roberta who had me thinking about becoming a nun in 7^th grade, where we talked about the joy and mystery faith but for the most part it was all about obligation. I’ve struggled with finding my spiritual path as an adult. I’ve attended a few Sunday ceremonies at different churches and have been drawn in by some of the ritual there. I was incredibly moved by my mother’s funeral mass, filled with familiar prayers and songs, but when I attended my father’s anniversary mass, a regular Sunday with intentions for his soul, I was angry by the time I left at all the changes which felt like change for change sake because frankly I hadn’t been a part of the church or the conversation around making them. That mass was a betrayal to my memory but more importantly it separated me from the spiritual comfort of mass at a time when I thought a move back to church might become part of my haphazard spiritual journey.

Wait. This is not how I envisioned this post about giving myself the gift of writing courageously.

What I really want to say, to myself since I am my only guaranteed reader but here in public so I can feel as if I’ve made a commitment, is that I am going to write. I am going to write at the risk of becoming a disappointment, of being disappointed. I am going to take the time to be brave.

Happy Birthday to me.

end of the year motivation

The 1 1/2 week break from school, and all the hype around the New Year often inspire me to do a lot of writing and work on projects I have only thought about in the past few months. 
This morning I spent an hour in Panera watching my daughter struggle through a section of her fiction she didn't quite know how to write. She interrupted her sister and I at our reading to pose questions and lay out possible scenarios and then pounded out her ideas in that one-handed way of hers. A frown of concentration and dissatisfaction never quite left her face. 
My own hands itched to type.
That itch felt good. I had left my laptop at home since it has been a long time (a really long time) since I had written so much as a journal entry. I have restricted my writing to lessons and report card comments and email, so focused on the work of teaching 4th grade that I neglected the work of me. 
So, that divine combination of break time and New Year's Resolutions means scratch the itch. And maybe even schedule in some writing time for the next few months so I don't forget that I want to be a writer when I grow up.

the empty studio

A few weekends ago we went to Open Studios Lowell to look around the artist studios and see what was happening. It’s such a vibrant community in the Western Avenue Studios where artists both live and work. I spent the hour imagining what it would be like to live and work everyday in creativity. And then we walked to a part of the mill with empty studios. For rent.

In my imagination, this studio has an overstuffed couch with lots of pillows, a cushion on the window ledge, our old wooden farmer’s table, and a wireless router. The wall is a story map, a timeline, a portrait gallery of characters.

I see myself sitting at the table, writing about my grandfather and my students. I see Thea, sketching a new character, using her bent knees as a desk. Anya is banging on her laptop up on the window seat.

I wanted to run home and create a studio there. I wanted to walk over to the office and rent this one. I wanted to sit right down and write.

Since leaving the studio that day I have barely written outside of course assignments and schoolwork. But I don’t feel sad when I look at this empty studio. I don’t lament or complain or even pine for it. I smile. Creativity lives wherever we bring it to life. Today, that’s my kitchen table, the middle school auditorium, the family computer, and Thea’s bedroom.

Someday it might be a studio like this one. 

writing in a notebook, again (I hope) a Slice of Life

I don’t even remember when I bought this notebook, but I can imagine that feeling of excitement over the fresh pages. I was likely attracted by the narrow lines. I like the strong cover and the elastic that keeps it closed; it gives me a sense of purpose when I pull the elastic back and take the pen from behind my ear. I probably even thought about the plain black cover that gave a blank slate feeling, no boundaries, no guidelines, just write.

 

I had been in the habit of buying a new notebook when I was nearing the end of the old. The promise of the new inspired me to write even more, I was so anxious to open the fresh one. The dates near the beginning and end of each of my notebooks show way more productive work than the middle. I’m sure I bought this notebook with a sense of excitement and enthusiasm.

I’ve had the notebook for over a year.

Because during that time, I have been unable to write without pain. I had to switch to typing which allowed me to compose longer before I had to give in. Today, I can barely sign the receipt to pay for lunch; it hurts so much to write by hand.

And I miss it.

I miss the way my brain works through the pen, the different kinesthetic experience of gliding through words rather than pounding them out.

I miss the freedom of pulling out a notebook and jotting down ideas no matter where I am. I’ve used the notes feature on my phone and bought this really lightweight MacBook, but I know I don’t write as much as I did when I used a pen.

Tomorrow, I go in for arthroscopic surgery to repair the TFCC tear in my joint which we think is the likely cause of the worst pain, though I also have two other problems in the same area. According to my surgeon it has a 70% chance of improving my wrist. He calls it lousy surgical odds. I say I’d buy a lottery ticket on those odds. If this doesn’t work then we go to the next, much more invasive and serious, surgical step.

So, to prepare for the surgery, I took out this as yet unused notebook and put it on the table as my inspiration. I can feel the joy of the ink marking up the first page. Dr. A – make it happen!

My Slice of Life. 

Creativity in humidity

Yesterday in Massachusetts was truly a summer day. The temperatures rose above 90, the humidity kept pace. All we could do was stay as still as possible. Despite having grown up here, I am never prepared for the summer. I melt, and any cheerfulness I may have had melts away as well.

My girls take after me.

Yesterday could have been a truly craptastic day.

But it wasn’t.

After a morning appointment, we went to the ice cream stand for lunch. Yes, ice cream cones are a perfectly appropriate lunch when the thermometer already reads in the high 80s at 11:00am. After that we drove up to the mall to soak in some air conditioning and buy a few needed summer clothes. Second lunch in the food court (with actual protein) and we were ready to brave the outdoors again.

At home, Thea retreated to her air-conditioned room (she has asthma, so gets the ac), Anya headed to the relative cool of the finished basement, and I sat under the porch ceiling fan icing my wrist.

And here’s the cool part: each of us got to work on a creative project. I started organizing the two major writing projects I am thinking about for the summer, Thea created character boards for a story idea that’s been percolating for a while, and Anya pounded away on her laptop to complete the next part of her fantasy novel, complete with snippets of poetic prophesy.

At the end of the day, my wrist still hurt, there were dishes in the sink, and not a single load of laundry had made it to the washer. It was a very productive day.

Today we are anticipating temperatures in the mid-90s with 70% humidity. We’re heading down the street to the lake to meet up with some friends. (I’m tempted to bring my laptop.)

Not every day will be as creatively productive as Monday was. Some days I’ll have to actually wash those dishes and run the washing machine. Still, what an inspiring way to spend our first day of school vacation.

Here’s to a summer of writing!

This is my Slice of Life for the week. See others here. 

Thankful - Day 7

Today I am grateful for my sore wrist. Well, no, not for my sore wrist, but for the reason it is bothering me a bit more than usual tonight.

I tried something new in class today – Editing Musical Chairs. Each student had to:

1.) find a partner

2.) describe his/her essay topic to that partner, and listen to the other person’s topic

3.) write down a possible thesis statement based on what you were told

4.) write down at least 2 questions/concerns that come to mind that the writer will have to address in the essay. Each student has to take a stand on an issue as part of their topic choice, so there is always a counter argument to consider.

After everybody wrote those things down for their partner, we switched and found new partners to go through the process again.

The activity went very well, with lots of good conversation about each student’s topic.

After two rounds, I asked the writers to look at the concerns their partners raised and write down which of their sources might address that concern, and how. If they had no source to address the issue, did they think it was important to find one? If so, where would they look? If not, why not?

This process brought us to the end of class pretty quickly.

I am so thankful that the idea worked.

Now, about my wrist. I just spent the last two hours reading over this work and writing my own comments and questions for each student. And that was just for one out of the two writing sections I teach. There were so many great ideas exchanged that I had lots to comment on. I wrote a page of notes for every student.

My wrist hurts.

I am grateful that this risk I took in trying out an activity I’ve never tried before worked and produced such thoughtful reflection on their topics.  I am thankful for these bright and skillful students I get to work with each week.