My Adopted Teenage Girl, Writing

Stephen King says in his book, On Writing, that a true writer manages to do the toughest thing every day: keep their ass in that chair and just write. Write about everything or nothing at all, but for god's sake, write. This seems easy, but staring at a blank screen with a blinking cursor is tough, even for those who love to be alone for hours, playing with words in completely new and thoughtful ways. I knew I wanted to write today, but wasn't sure what about, so I decided I might as well get existential and write about Writing herself.

Since I started again this weekend, I find myself wanting to keep Writing. I guess I didn't realize how much I missed her. Her grey eyes sparkle as they contrast deeply with her porcelain skin. Now that I've visited, Writing is clinging to my arms, whining about "please let me do my own thing tonight" and "why don't you want to spend more time with me? I'll run away if you don't start paying attention to me more!" She is the envy of all, but will only speak to a select few--typical teenager. At times, she is broody and elusive and won't express herself, no matter how much I beg. Other times, she cuddles up to me like she's a child again, and whispers for me to tell her a story. I can't shake her, and I can't say I want to, either. Plus, who can resist the urge to fill that pristine paper with splotches of your mind in Writing? Not I.

For the first time in awhile, I feel creative for me, and  me alone. That may not seem like much, but when most of what I do in the imaginative vein relates to something I'm planning, preparing or demonstrating for the students in my class to share their creativity, not mine, it becomes special when it is just for me. I can be creative in the projects and lessons I create, but for the most part, my job isn't based on that. It's making sure the students learn the hows and whys of art so that they can do what I'm doing--express their own ideas and feelings in any imaginative medium. I have done all of the preparation, but have somehow avoided the constant application follow-through. Sure, I've dabbled with Writing off and on since I was young enough to write, but I haven't made a true commitment to be her sole provider. I guess I haven't felt ready for such a huge responsibility, but I think it is about time. So, welcome home, my nearly grown child, sent away and brought back on a whim. I promise you can stay for awhile this time, and I'll indulge your fancies as often as possible to try and make up for lost time.

Writing is a fickle muse and can disappear as suddenly as she summons herself, but for the most part, she is easy to trust and I can always be myself around her. However, she is an bluntly honest little girl; she holds no punches back. She'll wallop you upside the head with a truth so powerful you're not sure where it came from, but it is never a red herring. Writing knows what is truly right, and a good guardian knows a truth bomb when she sees one. Writing is also very clever at hiding things within your own thoughts, that aren't seen  until many reads or discussions later.  She knows when truths should emerge slowly, or when they need to strike quickly and retreat, leaving you to pick up pieces, piecing new meaning together. Writing can drive you crazy, obsessing over one word you said, which left her feeling odd and out of sorts all day, or she can make you so satiated, you could sleep for days with a huge grin on your face the entire time.  

Immediately, the theme song from The Facts of Life from 80's TV pops into my head: "You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have: the facts of life." That's how I feel about Writing. I'll take them both, because at the root of the good and the bad does lie a life of facts. Authors are the reporters about human nature, to poorly paraphrase my mentor, Kurt Vonnegut, and it is their report that acts as the canary in the mine in terms of fulfilling our commitments to ourselves, each other, and society. When Writing finds a good owner, anything becomes possible again, and I'm excited to begin this journey with my new girl. I just need to remember to get plenty of chocolate, coke, and piddle pads. Writing is a diva when it comes to her snacks, drinks, and her privacy. She still isn't as house-broken as I'd hoped yet.

Dear, sweet Writing is helping me vent feelings that just need to be removed from my head, surgically, with a ten-finger keyboard stance and a blank MS Word document. I can't see a therapist right now due to financial constraints, but Writing is acting as a soft couch for me to lay on and purge the harmful downward spirals of thought I've conjured in my brain.  And truthfully, when I immerse myself in Writing, I have an audience listening, even if no one reads it other than me. I am driven by the need to find precisely the words I need to express my thoughts, emotions, and experiences, as Writing urges me to find focus and clarity. I can pose questions to the page and sometimes find the answers written by my own hand a few paragraphs down. Though I can tell my sour mood takes a toll on Writing, she obeys patiently, wise enough to know that my soul will recover and allow my Writing to sing of happier tomes. Today, she is quite content with my play; I think I've won her over for another day (She loves end rhyme, but I try not to spoil her!).