if you could see the behind-the-scenes (a grandiose term for my minor little piece of the internet) drafts i have, you could tell that i’m not sure where to start.
here it is: i need to get writing. this is that nagging space that i cannot ignore–the cursor in a blank document on my mac, or my ipad, or empty surface on the antique desk i should sit at to make notes. children, husband, family, work, and sleep all seem more immediate. living is important, but i can live better if i write, too. “teen mom” is not more important than writing, so this blog will make me turn off mtv to write.
in class today, we workshopped two nonfiction pieces. these students had experiences that begged telling. we had the discussion of what was too much information, too personal to share, as i’m sure every cnf workshop has. i had to tell them, “listen, it is your story, but we can only know what you write. you can withhold what you want, but it won’t help your piece discover itself. and your reader will notice the gaps in your words.”
and then i decided i needed to take my own advice.
so here i am, typing the stories of myself, my family, the things that boggle my mind: why my grandmother has an extensive panty hose collection, why my son cries when i read him excerpts of my fiction (and why i read my son excerpts of my fiction), how i handle an invisible disease, my dog shedding on the floor, etc. if i can’t reconcile these pieces, i at least need to make some sense of them.
so i’ll write…