There’s a scene in the movie, Becoming Jane, when Lady Gresham and Mr. Wisely pay a call to Jane Austen’s family. After Lady Gresham suggests Jane and Mr. Wisely take a walk together in the “pretty little wilderness” nearby, we see Jane’s face change expression: her brow furrows, there’s recognition in her eyes of something important. She turns, then, sits down on a bench and feverishly scratches words into a notebook. Readers of Jane Austen know those words later find their way into her novel, Pride and Prejudice.
Even if you haven’t seen the movie, you know that feeling if you’re a writer, that insistent pull to grab a notebook and pen and leave all conversation in order to put the magic onto paper before it slips away. And you’d probably laugh like I did when, after Mr. Wisely tells Lady Gresham that Jane is simply writing, Lady Gresham (the quintessential non-writer) asks, “Can anything be done about it?”
As writers, we are defined by such moments. Nothing can be done about our obsession with words and dialogue and tiny notebooks in pockets. It simply can’t be helped.
Guilty.
I’ve pulled out my pen and notebook in the middle of church, when I should be singing or listening to the sermon, because something struck me that needed to be written down, stat. Sure, I felt a little guilty, wondered if it was somehow sacrilegious. So, I wrote pensively, as if I was simply taking notes on the hymn number (which, sometimes, was exactly what I was doing…verses in hymns have been known to inspire). But then, if I believe what Julia Cameron teaches us, I don’t need to feel bad: that burst of creativity was very likely sent from somewhere above; I was simply honoring the process.
I’ve learned to accept the fact that writing will always be on my mind. I will turn to story, the novel, even a blog post at unexpected times. I will over pack when I leave town, mixing writing paraphernalia with clothing, just as I did this weekend when my husband and I took off for a mini-vacation and a wedding. Along with too-heavy sweaters and an extra set of heels, I packed the iPad, the laptop, the notebook (or two). Though, I never sat down and put anything on paper (or on screen), my works in progress still made their way into my days.
We went snowshoeing on Saturday, and in the middle of the woods, I stopped. I listened to the quiet snowfall. I studied the height of the trees. I took a photo. Partly for the beauty, yes, but mostly for the inspiration.
Those trees begged for a place in my novel, in a scene centered around the protagonist’s walk through northern pines, majestic in their own way and protective of whatever lies beyond.
Which, after two hours trudging along the winding and rolling and thick-with-powder path in snow shoes for the first time, this protagonist hoped was a warming house with hot cocoa and a masseuse.
Funny, how our minds wander.
What did you capture this weekend?
