September 27, 2009 4:22 am (after good sleep)
Words have always been my interest. I read everything when I was a little girl; always had a book close by. I’d read outside, under the willow tree outside my bedroom window. Hide from reality and live in fantasy, live in fiction. This was before turmoil and unanswered questions. These were my personality building years.
Birthday presents were books. Neighbors contributed to my habit as well; I had a reputation. My introduction to the library was magical. I read all the Little House on the Prairie, Narnia Chronicles, Nancy Drew, Judy Blume, award winners, cereal boxes, billboards, storefronts, product labels…couldn’t get enough. Couldn’t stop. My first addiction.
Writing started with my Mom: grade school again, homework assignment. We sat in my bedroom, just the two of us, for what seemed like hours. I would tell her what I wanted to write and she would teach me to describe what I wanted to write. Hello Thesaurus. We wrote a commercial jingle or advertisement poem about Dove soap. Yes, Mom used Dove. We enjoyed our time and I was hooked. I dabbled in fiction, mostly as assigned in school, but the truth always interested me more. I sought other teachers.
Mr B introduced me to journaling. He required us to keep a journal which he alone read periodically. I guess he was the first to provide comments to my thoughts. To validate my feelings. He validated me. I was liberated and needy. This was high school, after all. Those journal words were filled with angst, and sorrow, and confusion, and need. Post divorce.
I remember the feel of that journal; the physical feeling of it’s gray cover and college ruled lined paper. I can feel now the relief of release on those pages. The anticipation of reading my book with Mr B’s words neatly written in the margin: powerful description; I understand; you may want to explore this. All positive, never judgmental. This was new. I craved more.
Mr B thought I could publish my short story and he and I sat in study hall proofing, over and over. I never submitted my story, it sits in the desk drawer to my left. The story was good and true. My story. I reread it every so often and wonder what roads I could have traveled if only I followed through with his suggestion. If only I took the advice of a teacher instead of my parents, my friends, my conscience.
Writing about losing seemed to work for me. My unpublished story addressed my best friend’s move, from the minute I heard the words, “we’re moving,” to the minute I hugged her at the airport months later. Cathartic and cleansing. Unlike my journaling, this I wrote with structured grace. This form of my story was purposeful and planned and thought out, and fluid.
The next loss was my step grandma, during college, freshman year. My words hit paper at the request of another teacher, for a required writing course I took at Harper. What I learned in this class taught me to get to the point. Drop those flower-lined paths and tell the reader what you mean. Good advice for a business major; I can write a smooth letter. But it worked for my life writing too. I faced my feelings and collected my words and got to the point of my first death. I was the last person to talk to her. She coded while I was visiting her in the hospital. I was a teenager alone in a sea of chaos and fear. And my friend, writing, helped me cope again. The summer school teacher read my story to the class and I felt semi published. And proud. And growth.
Rewind a minute…to high school again and journaling. I began a close friendship with K sometime in my sophomore year. She took French too and we would speak French in the hallways, at our lockers. Then we began writing our notes to each other in French. Our secret code. She got us a spiral notebook to write our notes in, and to quickly exchange between classes. This was great, I was writing non stop, and receiving responses immediately. We filled three notebooks as we wrote into the next school year. That’s when I replaced words with herb.
Pen pals influenced me too. My Mom set me up with a daughter of her friend who lived in NYC. She was a teen and I was 9. I loved her letters, filled with shaving legs and boyfriends and fiction to read. My cousin and I wrote for years. We had Thesaurus challenges and filled our pretty stationary with lines of description. When I visited her we would escape to read our books. We shared our passion for words. I felt comfortable with my written words and I was attracted to people who were also.
Men and words…that’s an interesting aspect of my life story. I wrote to D during junior and senior years of HS. I met him New Year’s Eve at my friend's house. He was a friend of her family, visiting from another state. People were packed into her walk-out basement, sleeping bags and pillows everywhere, and he and I sat up talking all night. He was older, I don’t remember how much, and I was hooked. His words were intelligent, thought provoking, positive, and new. We wrote about books we read and songs we sung and life. I felt safe writing to D, not knowing if we’d ever see each other again. I read the books he suggested and listened to the albums he listened to. And felt true. An explorer, traveling new roads and soaking up the local culture.
I briefly wrote to a boy I knew in HS. We never dated, just laughed constantly. We wrote each other from our respective colleges. He was a crack-up in person and on paper; breathing fresh air with each word, and allowing ourselves silliness amidst the stress of academia and negativity. Until I let the external influences in.
Other relationships do not compare. Writing for me is sacred and strong and raw and forgiving and crafted. Some people I love have not experienced the joy of writing. Experienced knowing the depth of human beings. Knowing the way people think. Feeling one’s creativity through words. Possessing freedom of expression and self investigation and belief and exploration and growth. This cannot be taught. Took me 43 years of living to learn.
