To Write or Not to Write, That is the Question

     There is something about the love of writing that I think some authors who publish professionally may be losing out on.  I’ve been reading The Writing Life by Annie Dillard, and also just read a blog post about writing by a popular author, wherein they literally torture themselves in the writing process.  True, they make their living by writing, and I have a day job, but it truly seems that they find writing almost physically painful.  How can that be a good thing? 

     I realize that once one has started a series, as the popular author has, one has to come up with the next one.  But I think I’d much rather be like Harper Lee and never publish again, then to struggle to churn out a sequel and grow to hate what I do.

     For me, it is much more painful to share what I have written.  It is truly your self, your real self, that is exposed there on paper and when people criticize that, it is excruciating.  On the other hand, when someone connects or praises what I have written, it is exhilarating. 

     I have read many of Madeleine L’Engle’s autobiographical books, where she talks about being compelled to go and write in her study.  It is more like she is driven there by her muse, she cannot not go and write.  That was how it was for me as a child.  I wrote madly until the muse let me go, sometimes the story was finished, most the time it was not.  While I was writing it was as if a storm engulfed me, the real world disappeared and only reappeared when I was finished. 

     That doesn’t happen for me any more.  I could only write when my life was in place, with my family in the house in the background.  Once I was on my own I was terribly lonely.  I set up all my research books on the kitchen table and set to work and nothing came.  It would have broken me then to have forced myself to write.  It would have been wrong somehow.

    In my classroom, after we have finished our mini lesson and done some assigned writing, I give them the option of reading or writing.  Those who are inspired keep writing, sometimes for a lengthy time.  Those who are not go and read something they have chosen.  I think it is a good compromise.

Chicory Road- a writing process

After last night's Teachers Write Twitter chat I was inspired but just couldn't think of anything to write this morning.  I stumbled around online and then found 10 Things Every Writer Needs to Know by Jeff Alexander.  I started to take notes on the book and then started another page with notes on an idea I'd been playing with.  Somehow I was reminded of how during a long ago late summer I was walking along a country road despondently and grew fond of the blue chicory flower growing there.  I am always reminded when I see it that my prayers were answered.  So I decided to start writing a storyline called Chicory Road, which actually exists in Racine.
      I started researching chicory, more or less just for fun, and found fascinating information that I can use in a story:
The Germans call it 'Blauwarte' (not very romantic) but the stories and poems are an inspiration.  It means 'blue lookout by the wayside' and in folklore it was believed to be able to open locked doors.

I found a beautiful poem translated into English that captures the feeling I had when I walked down the Chicory road years ago:

Hermann Löns, 1866-1914 Es steht eine Blume, Wo der Wind weht den Staub, |: Blau ist ihre Blüte,    Aber grau ist ihr Laub. :|Ich stand an dem Wege, Hielt auf meine Hand, |: Du hast deine Augen    Von mir abgewandt. :| Jetzt stehst du am Wege, Da wehet der Wind, |: Deine Augen, die blauen,    Vom Staub sind sie blind. :| Da stehst du und wartest, Daß ich komme daher, |: Wegewarte, Wegewarte,    Du blühst ja nicht mehr. :|

tr. Steve Roski 1998 A flower is standing By the side of the way. Light blue is her blossom, Her leaves they are grey.I came down that road once, Reached my hand out to stay. I looked in your eyes then, But you turned them away. You stand by the road now Where the desert winds gust. Your beautiful blue eyes Are blinded by dust. You're waiting that I will Come along as before. Wayside Flower, Wayside Flower, You don't bloom anymore.

Writers that inspire me

The writers that inspire me have a spare prose and poetry style and express a love a nature.  When I was doing a search on Verlyn Klinkenborg this morning I found out that people make fun of his writing and say it isn't about anything.  He writes for the New York Times and is a professor, which comforts me.  I think people are missing the point of what he is trying to say.
    Another favorite writer that I discovered only a few years ago is Wendell Berry.  He describes rural life in the 30s and 40s, a life I never experienced but can appreciate, because that was my grandparents life.  Even though by the time I knew my grandma she was a city dwelling widow, remnants of that rural life were still evident in her home, her dress, and her cooking.  It is a treasure to read Hannah Coulter and Jayber Crow to envision a life that doesn't exist anymore.  Wendell Berry is criticized because he left the farm to be a scholar.  Critics think that makes his point moot, but if he wasn't a scholar, he wouldn't be able to make his point. Ironic.
     Through yearly readings of Charlotte's Web with my third graders, I am in awe of E. B. White's writing.  I found a copy of his Essays in a used book store and treasure it.  He also can bring back a time and place that no longer exists with so much vividness, I feel that I am there living it.
     These 3 authors have a way of making me slow down, look at nature, appreciate the seasons, and remember what a blessing this physical world is.  It is all too easy to be caught up in schedules, internet, and the artificial world of television and forget all about the natural world around us and the peace it can give.
     I tend to gravitate to older writers, for various reasons: less vulgarity, classic story lines, a feeling that, just perhaps, I was born in the wrong time.  I love the vast information available to me on the internet.  It has opened up a world of learning to me that was inaccessible before, but it also has taken me away from my beloved books.
  I stumbled across the mystery writer Josephine Tey awhile back, and The Franchise Affair is a book I return to again, and again.  It is dated, as are some of her other books, it is a simple story with a complex underlying plot.  There is something about the story that appeals to me, and of course it has a romantic ending.
     In college I discovered I, Keturah by Ruth Wolff, which could be considered corny by some standards.  Keturah's life goes through different phases in the book, and a line that a mentor tells her has stayed with me all my life: the cream always rises to the top.  I am still waiting for it to rise, more or less but that is a topic for another day!

Urban Gardens

     For years I've wanted to do more to beautify the inner city property of our Lutheran church and school here in Racine.  Now my classroom is being moved across town to this property so I asked permission to begin an urban garden.  When I looked around the property for a spot, I saw a small area that had already been cleared with a rock border and some remnants of another years tomato plants.  I thought this would be a good place to start.  Being a cool sunny morning in June I thought this should be easy work, but I was wrong.  Even though the breeze was cool coming off of Lake Michigan, I was soon dripping with the effort of weeding and turning over the soil.  There is always a tedious side to the joys of gardening.  I kept plugging away at my small effort and as I walked away I turned to admire my work: it was barely visible!  Now I want to add to it, but plan to go in the afternoon when the work area will be in the shade.
     Even though we lived in the city, and my dad was city born and raised, we always had a garden.  He kept this up into his eighties and only gave up his tomato plants when forced by heart problems to move to a condominium.  So I would like to dedicate my urban garden to him, and all the memories of our vegetable gardens growing up.  They were never pretty gardens, he would hide the garden behind the garage and tie up the tomatoes with whatever was available.  But he always seemed to enjoy scratching at the weeds, tilling out some fresh vegetables from the dry, dusty soil.
     He attempted to have a garden in the country when I was in high school.  We would drive out there to weed and it was sheer torture in the hot sun, not the enjoyable hobby it was in our backyard.  He kept it for several years after I left for college and had summer jobs so I was unable to help.  It inspired my brother to have his own garden in the valleys between the bluffs in LaCrosse.  There he showed us his garden with pride, on a friend's property so beautiful I imagined it must have looked like this in the Garden of Eden.  It was lush and velvety green, with a brook tumbling over rocks nearby.  What a pleasure it must have been to pause and lean on a hoe while weeding and glance around at the scenery that took your breath away.  Years later, when I see the owners of that property on rare occasions, I still recall the beauty and reminisce with them.  I can't imagine ever wanting to leave a place as wonderful as that.  I wonder if one takes it for granted when you see it every day.
  So I will have my urban garden, with concrete tumbling along side of it instead of a brook.  Hopefully the students will plant their own tomatoes next spring and I will tend them carefully over the long hot summer, starting a tradition for them to carry on with them into their futures.

“[Psalm 19] For the director of music. A psalm of David. The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
This morning I opened my eyes to a watercolored sky.  The clouds were wisps against the light blue background.  Why don't I take more time to look at the beauty God has created there for me every day?  It's too much of: wake up, the  alarm clock is ringing, take a shower, eat breakfast while my hair is drying, read the paper or the computer as I eat.  And yet, when there is no schedule I tumble through the day at a loss for what to do.  I must find a balance to sustain myself, remind myself to look at beauty as I go through the motions of the day.

Summer Plans

After a cool,  inclement spring, I want to embrace each day of summery weather.  So I will make a plan:
1. Breakfast and lunch on the porch every day possible.
2. Walk twice a day.
3. Work in the yard as much as is needed.
4.  Practice Chopin preludes when the sun isn't out.
5.  Write every day.
6. Begin and end each day in prayer.
7. Hike at Hawthorn Hollow once a week.
8.  Hike by the lake once a week.
9.  Work on a garden at my new school site.
10.  Read, read, and then read!

Poetry month

Summons

Keep me from going to sleep too soon
Or if I go to sleep too soon
Come wake me up. Come any hour
Of night. Come whistling up the road.
Stomp on the porch. Bang on the door.
Make me get out of bed and come
And let you in and light a light.
Tell me the northern lights are on
And make me look. Or tell me clouds
Are doing something to the moon
They never did before, and show me.
See that I see. Talk to me till
I'm half as wide awake as you
And start to dress wondering why
I ever went to bed at all.
Tell me the walking is superb.
Not only tell me but persuade me.
You know I'm not too hard persuaded. 

Robert Francis