February Newsletter - The Writing Life

February 2003 Newsletter

By Jessica Page Morrell

Dancing Ink I celebrated my birthday last week, and received among my booty: much advice on aging, many bottles of wine, a fine gold chain, a feather boa, a basket brimming with cooking herbs and oils, bath salts, earrings, and accoutrements of the writing life. One gift, a notebook of sunflower yellow is emblazoned with the Chinese symbol for "Dancing Ink." It is a phrase used to describe 'the talents of one who draws and writes, one who plays with pen on paper.' The first page suggests that the notebook is "meant to journey with you. Slip it into your shoulderbag as you dash onto the train or onto your trusty steed." Perhaps there was a steed in another lifetime, in this one, I'll be satisfied with tucking a notebook into my suitcase when I head out of town next week to teach writing workshops. I hope you too know the comforting heft of carrying a notebook wherever you go. It's such a simple thing, to be ready always to capture the words and ideas that spill forth. Or, like Oscar Wilde, who said, "I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read on the train."-- keep a journal to amuse yourself. A friend gave me Jack Heffron's highly recommended The Writer's Idea Book, Meditations, a journal for women, and The Writer's Image, a calendar dotted with photos of famous authors. One of my favorite quotes in this collection is by the intriguing M.F.K. Fisher, "When I can't write, I read. When I can't read I cook." Which seems like a simple formula for living the writing life. We all need reminders to stay on the path. A few years ago Natalie Goldberg passed on her favorite Buddhist wisdom while lecturing in my on-line 'classroom' which I promptly taped to my computer: Continue under all circumstances. Make positive efforts. Don't be tossed away. And we most certainly need tools of the trade. Books for reference, books that answer questions when our plots are stuck, book that build our vocabulary and correct our faulty grammar. Notebooks and journals that beckon our thoughts and ideas. But we also need to be guided by those masters who dance with ink. Somehow we must track down our idols, listen close when they discuss how and why they write. We need to take heart when we learn how many times Hemingway rewrote a particular scene or how many times a famous author was rejected. We need to be constantly reminded of the enduring power of art to illuminate the human condition. We need to be inspired by words strung like jewels on the page. Inspiration and wisdom are found in so many places, because most authors are generous. They understand the pain and struggle and glory of writing and are willing to toss their advice into the ring. In The Writer's Image John Updike, jaunty in a cap, stands outside of a small town post office. He says: "When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but a vague spot a little east of Kansas. I think of the books on library shelves, without their jackets, years old, and a countryish teen-aged boy finding them, and having them speak to him." So take your place among our tribe. Trace the dusty or fresh footprints of writers who have gone before. Pull up a chair and listen. Then aim a little east of Kansas. ****************************************************************** Why I Write: I write because it gives me a voice, an expression, the truth of being me. I write because it's a job that's portable and easy and freeing. I can do it in my bathrobe, barefoot, and braless. I can write when I've got a lousy cold, a bad case of the blues, a fatal case of lust, when I'm on the verge of falling in love, mad at life, in love with life, lonely as hell, disheartened to my core or twittering with hope. I write because even when it's maddening and I'm not getting anywhere with what I'm trying to say, there always a glimmer of hope that tomorrow the process might be easier. I write because it's the most fun I have when I'm alone. I write because when I do, I don't feel alone. I write because while I'm writing I can listen to NPR talk shows, Memphis blues, Ella Fitzgerald, Sting, or Mozart. I write because I can scribble in a notebook at the beach, in bed, at a workshop along with my students; or at my computer. I write because I track weather and seasons and light filtering through the windows and somehow it all enters the words, infiltrating the mood or tone. I write because it helps me notice birds and leaves outside my window, the linen curtains rustled by the breeze. I write because I don't own any pets. I write because in the middle of a project I can take a nap or drink a cup of tea or eat a Fudgesicle. I write because it's cheap transportation and I can imagine that I live in Paris, Tennessee or Tahiti. I write because I can imagine myself another person entirely. I write because the more I write the more ideas I generate and the more I want to write. I write because it takes me back to the rivers and creeks of my childhood. And once again minnows are flashing in the shallows like quicksilver and I smell August and river on my sun-drenched skin. I write because it stirs my memories of the yeasty bread my mother baked on Saturday mornings, of fried chicken on Sunday or my grandma's molasses cookies. I write because it brings back snow piled high as my shoulders, brilliantly cold nights dazzling with faraway constellations, and frost laced on windows in improbable feathery designs. I write because when I do I can smell snow. I write because I remember merry-go-rounds and Ferris wheels and cotton candy from years back. I write because the ghosts of my past whisper that they want a chance to be heard. I write because it creates distance between me and the bruising times. I write because it helps me remember tender moments, stunning sunsets or wonderful meals shared. I write because I grew up always knowing I would someday. I write to live twice- once while life is going on, secondly when I'm writing down the memory, the moment, the event. I write because it scares me and I believe that it's good to take frequent, yet legal risks. I write because it makes me stronger and bolder. I write because I want people to know me after I'm dead. I write because I'm afraid of dying. I write because it connects me to other writers and I love being part of this quirky tribe of eccentrics and notetakers and geniuses. I write because it teaches me patience and proves that any craft pursued and patiently explored yields results and improvement. I write because it makes me proud of myself. I write because when I do I'm keeping a promise to myself that I made when I was a girl. I write because it's in front of me and I suspect will remain so when I'm an old, old woman. Now, why do you write? *************************************************** Inspiration: "Only art penetrates what pride, passion, intelligence, and habit erect on all sides-the seeming realities of this world. There is another reality, the genuine one, which we lose sight of. This other reality is always sending us hints, which, without art, we can't receive. Proust calls these hints our 'true impressions'... The value of literature lies in these intermittent true impressions...What Conrad said was true: Art attempts to find in the universe universe, in matter as well as in the facts of life, what is fundamental, enduring, essential." Saul Bellow *************************************************** February birthdays: Anais Nin, W. H Auden, David Foster Wallace, Edna St. Vincent Millay, John Keats,W. E. B. Du bois, Wallace Stegner, Toni Morrison, Ruth Rendell, Boris Pasternak, Sylvia Path, Langston Hughes..... ************************************************************** No portion of this newsletter may be reproduced without permission. (c)