As I log on to post this, I see how long it’s been since I was here. And that’s what this is about….
When I run into people I haven’t seen for a while, or when people I don’t know well are groping for conversation starters, the question is often “Are you still writing?” And I have to say “No, not really.” I see I began a post with something similar back in January, so this is nothing new.
It’s not that I don’t try. God knows, I do. I even turn my hand to fiction on occasion, but that’s a skill I’ve yet to master. The number of files on my laptop labeled “blog post”, or “thoughts”, or “an idea” number in the double digits. But they all come to nothing, and I think I’ve figured out why.
My attention, these days, is obsessively and morbidly on the state of the planet, the state of democracy, and sometimes on aging and the inevitability of mortality. On the first two, what can I possibly say that isn’t being said daily by more informed and insightful people than me—other than to share my own distress, which is probably similar to yours? On the third—well, of course. But there’s nothing much to say about that, either, except that it is eternal and transcends the first two.
To escape these obsessions, I turn to the trivia of daily life that pulls me away from the bigger questions but is not really that interesting even to me, let alone anyone else. My vegetable garden isn’t doing well, it’s laundry day, the cat killed a yellow warbler, I have to go to town three times in a week, or the rocks on the riverbank are really ugly (not one of my better posts, but I was desperate to write something!).
So what does make writing meaningful for me, and perhaps interesting for you? I’ve been thinking about that, as I stare at a blank screen or delete facile attempts to make sense of an incomprehensible and frightening world. So far, I’ve come up with just one answer, and I think it may be the only one for me: story. When I can connect a story in my own life to the bigger questions, something coherent often emerges. I could write meaningfully about mortality and loss several years ago, in the face of and the aftermath of losing Jack. It was the prominent storyline in my life. When I can use my own experiences to illustrate or expound on universal themes —aging comes to mind, for some reason—words flow. I have sometimes written about social and political issues, but most successfully in the context of my own memories or experiences. I’m not a guru on any of these things. It’s only by somehow tying them to the narrative of my own life that I can find a way to say something that’s not a rehash of the opinion pages or unbearably banal.
Are you still writing? No, not really. But I’d like to get back to it. I’d like to start plumbing those depths for stories again. Writing helps me understand myself and my own thoughts and, perhaps, could help me emerge from the endless circling around the things I have no control over whatsoever. Maybe it could even bring me face to face with things I do have control over.
If I succeed, you’ll be the first to know!
Yes, indeed, you are writing this. Sometimes, a hiatus is needed. Thanks for sharing, Paula!
Maybe writing, and not writing, is in itself one of those inner stories that we share.
Maybe writing this very post got you to face one those things that you do have control over- in this case, the return to writing.
Maybe you’ve just done it!?
Whatever the case, I continue to love your posts!
It will come when it comes. Blog posts help keep the writing muscles supple, but writing isn’t all there is to life. (HERESY!) Sometimes we DO need to escape into the smaller things of everyday life. When we can’t effectively affect the big things, we retreat to what we *can* do.
Me too! I’d love to see you get back to it and to get back to it myself! Thanks for sharing this.