I just sent my 10, nearly 11 year old off to beach camp with our church youth group. Part of me is so glad for a break from his whiny, preadolescent self. I do wish I would have hugged him and told him I loved him. I should have thought of doing it before we left the house, because he’s too embarrassed to let me do it in public.
But it’s such a beautiful morning and I’m so distracted by the sunlight slant upon my fingers at the keyboard. Regina is playing her piano and the house is so still and quiet in these early hours.
I read again last night those comforting words from Annie’s preface, how she was unafraid, at twenty-seven, to tackle such huge topics as God and creation. And how she fancied sentences were incomplete unless they were overworked. That’s the comforting part. It gives me hope because it takes me so long sometimes to wade through some of the paragraphs in that book. I can’t remember twenty-seven, only six years ago. Oh, yeah. Now I can see it. I had not yet begun to write.
I read a comparable, but not really similar comment from Toni Morrison a year or so back. She talked about the great lengths she went to in order to develop a distinctly African American sounding language in her early work. Not in the way people talked, but simply the words on the page. And by my estimations, she succeeded. Such an earthy, slow way her stories read. So much complexity in every action.
I have been so silent myself this year. It makes me want to cry. Of course, most thoughts right now are bound to bring tears to my eyes, so why not that one? But why? I mean, why no posts from me? Many excuses. I’ve never been one to post two or three times a week. But there have been periods when I did it once a week. My family said when I was growing up that every once in awhile I would talk their ears off for a day or so. They joked that the rest of the time I was saving it all up and deciding what I would say. And this is still somewhat true. I hesitate with the spoken word. So irretrievable. So permanent. I want what I actually put out there to be important and unwasted.
And lately, I believe I am paralyzed by the thought of no response to all the words I have taken time to string together. Not that my words are at all comparable to the ladies I’ve mentioned. Not that they deserve any comments at all. I just think I became conditioned, through the blog, to reponse. So conditioned that it’s all I can think about when I begin a topic. Usually I imagine a particular person, and what he or she may say, and I get excited. Then when I begin to flesh it out, I remember all the silence and unresponsiveness I’ve experienced here. And I get scared. I don’t want o put it out there and hear nothing.
And it’s not that I need encouragement to write. Every writer loves to hear compliments, but when I imagine your response, it’s not you telling me how awesome you think I am. It’s you simply nodding your head. Your heart beating in your chest so that you actually feel it, and you agreeing: yes, I know exactly what she means. That’s all I want. I could not be any more serious.
But why should I expect it? Why should I expect anything? My reader owes me nothing. And I have to stop thinking about it. I do not have a cabin in the woods where I live alone and take long walks everyday to breathe in deep the marrow of life. But I want to write that way. I want to write for me. To observe and work through all the words I keep trapped in my head. To compile enough of those words and thoughts to actually call them a manuscript. And more than likely it will never see print. It will not be delivered into your hands any time soon.
I need to be ok with that. I need a long, slow process. I cannot continue to obsessed with my end product. Create with only the emotion and art available in each present moment. Live and write, now.
So . . . there will no longer be comment boxes for you to fill in on my blog. I welcome your communication with me, but you’ll have to find another way to do it. Facebook and e-mail are still my friends, and you can find me there, but RainbowDull is becoming a one-way street. It’s what I need to do for me, for now. For my sanity and hopefully a renewed output here, as well as some other-worldly project I may or may not have waiting in the wings. I hope you understand.
My I-tunes have found a stopping point and the key bounce is getting quieter as footsteps are heading my way. I’ll be wrapping up now. The week ahead has many chores now that I am minus one child. I’ll see you back here tomorrow to let you know if I’ve accomplished any. Take care now. G’bye.