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Writing as Evidence

Every few days, the little voice inside my head confronts me with the same question: why write? What follows is a brief battle between several pros and one very strong con – you’re wasting your time.

Julia Cameron devoted an entire book to debunking that creative crusher. Plenty of well-known writers have published their own essays on “why I write.” Margaret Atwood lays out her reasons in her book, Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing. * After a page and a half, she refers to monetary reasons only once. And, so much of what she says speaks to my own writer self. She writes:

To set down the past before it is forgotten.
To excavate the past because it has been forgotten.
To produce order out of chaos.
To say a new word.
To justify my own view of myself and my life, because I couldn’t be ‘a writer’ unless I actually did some writing.
Compulsive logorrhea.
To cope with my depression.
To bear witness….

To bear witness.

Sometimes, I write to unravel my past.  I write essays about experiences that hold me hostage, still. Words fall onto paper, and I see the event with more clarity. Even when I write fiction, I scatter pieces of me throughout. The characters differ, the details vary, but the rise and fall of emotion mirrors my own. I revisit the pain, dissect the details, and find resolution. Once in a while, I even let go.

I may never get paid for one story. That novel might never make it to the galleys. But, I still have to write. If I succumb to my critic who says I’m wasting my time, I will forget the experiences I want to remember. Or, I will fester in the haunts I wish to forget.

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* Margaret Atwood. Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing. Copyright 2003 by Anchor Books (isbn 1-4000-3260-1)

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What’s the Word?

cagey: adj. evasive. shrewd. crafty.
(from wordsmith.org, today’s word)

Smells sweet. Looks clean. Plays dirty.

******

She sees me at the sink, filling the coffee carafe with water. She knows I can’t escape. She strolls up to me, and I sense her even before I turn to look. I stiffen. We’re still getting to know each other, this cat and I, and I’m not so sure she likes me.

I invaded her territory, fell into bed with her lover. I understand her disdain.

Still, I’m bigger than her. Eventually, I figure, I’ll win.

She weaves in between and around my ankles and purrs. I relax.

“Morning. Rob’s gone already. So, either you’re feeling lonely. Or, you’re coming around after all.” I reach down and scratch just behind her ears. Her nose turns up and she leans into my leg. She trots back and forth across the kitchen, following me as I pour water into the coffee maker, walk to the drawer for a filter, head back to the beans. I press start on the machine and bend down for one more caress.

“You’re sweet this morning.”

She squeaks out a faint meow.

After the coffee’s done, I sit at the table with a cup and the paper. She jumps into a chair and up onto the table, directly across from me. I predict a stare down. Instead, she curls up into a ball and closes her eyes. So, I sip my coffee and flip through the morning headlines. When I head off to the shower, I ease my chair out so as not to disturb her slumber.

I get dressed and run through my day: 8am project meeting, outline new proposal, schedule interviews for new assistant. For once, I’m not even thinking about the cat. We had such a good morning; she was civil, even affectionate.

I turn from my dresser towards the closet and debate, flats or pumps. After one, two, three steps along side the bed, my legs shiver. I move sideways, out of habit. But not fast enough to avoid her paws as they jut out from under the bed. With claws extended, she grabs my leg. I recognize that squeeze, the prick, the burning scratch. I jerk my leg and she follows, hissing. Her eyes are red. She lets go, runs to the window and bounces off the wall onto the bed. She sits upright.

“Dammit, cat!” I grab my shoes, back out of the bedroom, and slam the door shut.

It’s only because of Rob that I go back, turn the handle, and let the door fall open just a crack.

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Dirt Roads and Pine Trees

Up north, where the paved highway gives way to old asphalt then gravel and finally dirt, tall northern pines grow in height and mass.

I took a walk through the woods this weekend, alone, searching for quiet or at least reprieve. And, I noticed my view of the woods changes on a given day, depending on the state of my mind.

Sometimes, the pine trees look menacing to me, like barriers closing in. My mind fills with what if’s and I rummage through contingency plans for escape. Other times, the trees stand tall and open. They guide me up towards the clear blue sky. I follow their trunks down to forest floor — soft in its layer upon layer of pine needles and moss, and protective with its offerings of shade and shelter and periodic sun beams throughout.

How can I see the same picture in such extremes?

Depression is so subtle.It settles quietly, and I don’t notice until it lifts.

I made my way through the woods, through shadows from trees and deep sand in the dirt road. I kept looking down to find my footing. My head swelled. Until, finally, there was a break. An opening. The sun. And a one lane bridge built precariously over a small stream.

I stood there, on the bridge, for several minutes, unwilling to turn back. I held my breath and burned the image into my brain: water over rocks, bees on flowers, the sun. The clearing.