Finding my way back

I had set out to a destination to write, with a backpack filled with pencils and a writing pad, only to arrive, and realise that my backpack had a hole, and that the pencils had one by one, fallen out along the way.

No, that's not what's happening at all.

Writing was the theme of the day. In class, a professor made a comment that some have feared not having current presidents’ correspondences in the future, as emails have become the predominant mode of communication now. We all know how highly curators value past presidents' letters for what they tell of the thinking that led up to the decisions they made, or the standpoints they held on so resolutely to. I know how I've loved reading Elisabeth Bishop's letters while studying her poetry, enjoying especially those moments she'd let me into her most private, everyday moments by writing of the most mundane daily events. A classmate also shared today that her relatives had discovered a trunk left by her ancestors in an old farmhouse, containing love letters between her great grandparents. Her grandmother had framed a pair of the letters, and given it to her as a Christmas present. Then there was the conversation in class about ‘flow’, and how important that is, especially for writing. How I miss letters. How I miss writing and language.

Recently, it has seemed to me that words no longer dance off my finger tips and compose themselves spontaneously into crafted language. How, then? What, then? It is easiest to seek out a scapegoat. Is it the years of academic and office writing? Is it an inevitable reaction to reading far too much internet writing, and therefore losing that sensitivity to language? Worse, could it possibly be what I had suspected at eighteen, that it would harm me to listen to too much cliche-filled American English?

I would be a fool to think of any of those as valid reasons. I would be wise to make the real reasons plain.

I have not made space to write; neither the space in time, nor cognitive space, nor emotional space, nor even physical space for words to lounge around on paper or bytes. I have allowed the ultra-fine particles of internet dust to not only settle, but percolate thoughtlessly into every pocket of space I have. Real writers, on the other hand, make space to write. Christopher Paul Curtis, author of 'Bud, not Buddy', for example, did not resign himself to allowing his blue collar car manufacturing job to form his identity. Instead, he negotiated for a schedule that allowed him the space to sketch - in pictures and in words. Over twenty years later, those word-sketches grew into the Newbery-winning 'Bud, not Buddy'.

It is also sheer laziness that has supplied me with ample excuses not to write - including the one which says, "don't write, because you're not good at it." The truth is: I have encountered more good writing recently in all sorts of unexpected places than ever before, especially the internet. And, it's all sorts of good writing: challenging my previously held notion that good writing needed to have that certain felt, inherently undefinable quality. I now know that good writing can be, is needed, is powerful everywhere. This has caused it to seem like writing well is an increasing unsurmountable task; and hence the many excuses not to even try.

So, no. No pencils have fallen out, and the backpack hasn't suddenly developed holes. Rather, this craftsman has collected pencil after pencil on her journeys, starting quite a pencil collection in her backpack and weighing herself painfully down. When instead, she should be writing - using those very pencils.