On Writing

Today I searched through books on writing, on the teaching of writing, for a new course I'm offering in the fall. It's an honor for me to teach composition theory to eager fledgling teachers, but it's a daunting task. So much hangs in the balance: how can I reveal to them the secrets of being an inspiring writing teacher, the art of balance on the tightrope? Do I even know the secrets? Can I keep my balance?

I was shamed into writing this post after reading a new blog by a former student who is headed off to earn her MFA at LSU, where she will perform her magic trick for a new audience-- blowing jewel-toned words onto the page, lovely words that cast color and reflect light. She began her blog by saying that she hadn't written since graduation, that one who calls herself a writer must actually write. And so, here I am, writing out of guilt.

Like Sarah, I can't write at home. At school, in my small office full of books and carefully collected treasures, I can write tight academic prose. I can grade papers, create curriculum, solve problems with my words, but I can't string together a line of words that move me...or anyone else. At home, it is only early in the morning or very late at night when the words come to me, albeit limpingly. Here, there is too much distraction...laundry to be folded, dogs to be let outside, dinner to be thawed and cooked. Voices rise and fall with needs and desires. I am not a writer within the walls of my home; I am a mother, a wife, a woman of sand and straw. It is only when I am away from home that the words come tumbling. At the beach, fully formed sentences and paragraphs roll into my brain. On the road, I fill my journal with detailed notations: room descriptions, conversations overheard, life's truths unraveled. If I lived at the beach in a small gray weathered cottage, would my words force the air from the room? If I'd taken that other lonelier path, would I be someone called Joyce Carol Oates or Kate Chopin?

Maybe location has nothing to do with my productivity. It may be that I don't have enough strong magic to blow clear emerald and ruby bubbles into the air. Perhaps the sawdust within me coats my powers, leaving me only enough creativity to wonder what might have been.

I'm putting myself to the test of fire this summer. Am I more than sand and straw? Look for me at Panera or Starbucks or Barnes and Nobles, where I'll be waiting for the words to come.