Confessions of a Compulsive Blogger

Some of the first pictures I remember drawing were these: a bouquet of daisies and roses, a strictly rectangular version of our house with a rather pointy roof and excessively large chimney, Christmas trees, my family. Like all pictures of 6-year-olds, they ended up taped to the refrigerator, my bedroom door, proudly displayed to every visiting grandparent.

A few years later, I was still drawing most of the same subjects, with only a little more sophistication: I added a few petals lingering on a table to my vases with flowers, my houses acquired curtains neatly tied, billowing in curves perfectly cut right in the middle, a driveway, and some kind of tree sheltering the garage; I stopped drawing my family and instead drew models of princesses wearing long Victorian gowns or short modern dresses worn off the shoulder or patterned with oblique stripes. I liked them well enough, but was secretly jealous of my friend Laurie's ability to draw horses; even better, her ability to draw a horse with a rider, her long hair streaming behind her while the horse was in full gallop.

And a few years later yet, guess what? I was still drawing the same old things. Only now, they pleased me not at all. I was bored with my subjects and couldn't figure out what else to attempt. My lines were thin, my shapes disproportionate, I could never get the perspective right, this was wrong, and that was wrong, and oh bother.

This was in the days before Monart or Drawing From the Right Side of the Brain classes, when you were either "good at art," or not. I was definitely "or not." It's hard to keep going with your own dissatisfaction and instructors who look at your work and say things like, "well, that's not right." I knew the drawing wasn't right--what I needed was to understand why I was making the mistakes I made, and a strategy for correcting them. No big surprise that I stopped drawing when most people do, before I hit thirteen.

(FWIW, a similar phenomenon happens in music. I got lucky with a couple of music teachers, real coaches who could help me understand why I was hitting wrong notes, suggest strategies for getting the right ones, or help me hear what a piece ought to sound like. One in particular was so extraordinary that he deserves mention here (and all the success he has achieved): Randy Faber, founder of the Piano Adventure series. Teachers who follow his approach are going far to develop real musicality in their students; I only wish I had encountered him before I was an adult, with strongly entrenched bad habits. )

Anyway. I occasionally have a similar reaction to my own writing. That awful feeling of, "Am I really writing about THIS again?" or "yes, I love the structure of the greater romantic lyric--a journey from specific to general and back to the specific again--but isn't there another structure that might be interesting to try? Just once?" It's a feeling of being tired of my own voice.

Countering that is another voice that nudges me on, that reminds me that Monet got up every day and painted his water lilies... for how many years? Lots and lots. I have no business complaining that the only topic I can think of is our local garden activity, or what I had for dinner last night. Hey, this is a JOB.

Whispering in my other ear, though, is the voice that mutters, "yeah, that was fine for Monet, but honey, no offense, you're no Monet." It is true that my own connection with words is awfully tenuous. For all that the right words in the right order hold tremendous power for me, all it takes is a little lack of sleep, a little emotional upset, a headache, whatever, and poof!--all my words disappear. Compared to the writers I know (and some of those I live with) who are constantly inventing stories, who channel words, who, in fact traverse their world with words, I do not feel like a natural.

Then--as long as I'm confessing, you're going to hear everything--there's also the fact that I have no great compulsion to publish, at least not in the paying press... it's happened once or twice, but it just doesn't do anything for me to send a piece out, see my name in print, but get no other response, and know that whatever magazine it appeared in is probably in the trash within weeks of purchase. It actually makes me feel kind of queasy.

Apparently there are a lot of reasons people may write: to explore a subject, work with characters they've imagined, express their opinions, understand their feelings, and probably a few others I've neglected in this list. As for me, I am most motivated to write when I notice unexpected connections, when there's a phrase I've stumbled upon that I'm dying to use. Then, I want to write. But after that, I want to share. I'm not like Emily Dickinson, content to write my poems on slips of paper for my sister or maid to find -- I want other people to get these connections and ideas, too. And I want their response! Maybe it's that I'm normally a quiet person, reserved in conversation; writing is my way of participating, getting a voice. Or maybe I'm just more like those actors who prefer the stage to film because of the connection to their audience that the stage offers -- it feeds their creativity and inspires their performance.

Whatever the motivation, I'm drawn to blogging, and the responsiveness it permits. And that brings me back to this matter of voice. We are each given a particular voice that we can develop in particular ways, and just as we recognize Titian by his glorious use of red and gold, or Picasso by his bold, expressive lines, our own voices are recognizable by the themes we explore and our manner of exploration. We can certainly work on aspects of our voice that are not serving us well. I could, for example, try to write shorter sentences or use shorter words. Well, I could try, anyway.

I have my own voice with its own character, a definite personality, and strong preferences for the material it prefers to work with. My world is domestic and intimate: I write about homelife, the kitchen, meals, the exploits of M. and m. I am interested in what it means to do these thing right, how to live well and do right. Curiously, for all that I have interests in politics and science, my opinions here seem too private. They are not anything I'm interested in sharing.

Writing, like teaching, is one of those professions that inspires the fooolish to think they can get it right. Look at how many books Dan Brown wrote featuring the same man and woman (different names, different situations, of course) before getting to The Da Vinci Code. Look at how many times Jennie Crusie has used, to far better effect IMHO, the Nick & Nora combination (or Katherine Hepburn/Spencer Tracy, if you prefer. Tolstoy has a voice that is different than Fitzgerald, who differs from Hemingway. The point apparently is not to have a voice that can do everything, but to use your voice to do everything it can do, to keep looking at what's in front of you, expressing what you see, trying to get it right.

OK, now I feel like I'm seriously rambling. In the past few days, I've heard kind words and wise advice from many of you, and I thank you all, from the bottom of my heart, I thank you all for your support, and for coming by to read whatever is on my mind on any given day. Writers need coaches, and the books you've recommended, I expect are good ones. One piece of advice, however, in particular sticks with me:

Try living without writing for a period of time. If you find that you can, that the world makes sense to you living that way, then by all means don't write. Be happy in your new life and cherish the contentment. If, however, you find that you can't NOT write, then give your all to writing.

Any time I've tried to give up writing -- why waste the effort when I could be doing something, anything, far more remunerative? -- it leaves a gaping vacancy that can only be filled by ... writing. Alas. So it goes. And here I am, doing it again.

****************
(Hey, the WSJ online edition linked to my blog today! OK, it's a really, really tiny link, and it's way at the bottom, but a link!)