In the Springtime of Writing

Where does it all come from? And where does it all go? I write, trying not to think too much about the formation of the words, but to let them flow forth naturally. Sometimes the ground is stony, requiring a bit of work to break up the hardened crust to expose the richer soil beneath, but other times, the ground is fertile, simply awaiting the barest hint of rain to bear fruit. Like a tender shoot arising from the earth, there is a deeper place from which it originates, a seed of thought, of feeling, lying dormant until the conditions are right.

I worry from time to time that my momentary springtime of writing is just that – a passing season in which the fresh green of life bursts forth, only to fade away again after the initial bloom. I have spent twenty years in a winter, in which the ground was frozen solid, seemingly lifeless. I remember countless times of dreaming of that warm spring day in which the words of my heart would take root and grow;  now that they have, I am finding myself battling fear that it is short-lived. After all, I reason, how many ideas, how many stories could possibly be inside me? And what is there to say that hasn’t already been said so many times already, in so many different mediums? The explosion of Internet media has only served to illustrate the lack of original, fresh voices. Oh, they are out there, but what hopes does one have to say anything of worth and value in a sea of voices all clamoring to be heard?

And yet, I know that there are a few stories in me that, as far as I know, nobody else has told. I’ve tried on occasion in recent years to write them, but have encountered writer’s block time and again. All this time, I supposed my writer’s block to be a dried up well, an inkless pen, a rainless cloud. Of the things that I have learned so far in this course, however, the one truth that has grasped my soul with an unrelenting ferocity is that writer’s block is not a burnt-out deficiency on the writer’s part, but an inability or unwillingness to face certain truths and feelings about one’s self and one’s own history.

Having been tasked with writing a number of semi-autobiographical pieces, I have found that the ground nearest my own doorstep, rather than being barren from the familiar passage of footsteps, has hidden the richest of soils under the hardened crust. The shovel broke the dirt reluctantly, but once that resistant first layer was excavated, I began to rediscover the treasures that lie beneath. Memories, beautiful or haunting, lie scattered about, their roots already established, the shoots rising up in response to the exposure of daylight and the watering of tears.

Some memories have started to become pieces of literary nonfiction; others have begun to find expression in a fictional retelling of the scattered bits and pieces of my own self, fertilized with imagination and a creative spark. Watching long-buried parts of myself spring to a new life has been amazing, though I strive not to think too hard about what I am doing. It reminds me of a passage in “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” when Arthur Dent learns that the secret to flying is to hurl oneself at the ground and miss, and once in flight, to not give further thought to the impossibility of the act, for fear that gravity might take notice and rein one back in down to earth abruptly. In writing, I feel as though I have found my flight, as though I am currently coasting high above the trees, from a perspective I’ve not had in a long time. I want to stay up here, to feel the wind upon my face, to soar, to dive, to just float along to wherever the psychic winds carry me.

It used to be that the only thing that I could write was semi-rambling pieces about my desire to write. (And so far, in this blog, I’m continuing in that fine tradition…)  In thinking about that now, I realize that mindset is characteristic of who I am, of who I’ve been throughout my life. I was a child who did not walk until he knew he could. I did not speak until I was sure of what I was saying. My mother tells me that, when I finally spoke, I was speaking in complete sentences. Looking at my life from the bird’s eye view of memory, I can see how almost everything I have done has been after a long bout of self-doubt and perseveration, of anxiety and of fear – the fear of failure and the fear of success.

Now, as the gardener of my own memories, thoughts, and feelings, even though I am beginning to see life spring forth, I am afraid that after all these years, this is not a spring at all, but a sort of Indian Summer, a releasing of those things I have carried for far too long. Once they are grown into whatever it is that they are meant to be, what will be left? Once I tell the story of my own unique heartbreak and loss, will there be anything left for me to tell? Still, the joy of seeing the resurgence of hope where I had all but given up on the dream of writing spurs me on to dig up what I can, to plow the soil, nurture the sprouts as they emerge, and to simply sit back and let them grow.

It is, after all, for nobody else I write but for myself. Even if no other eyes ever read the words that spill across the page like blood from my vein, the mere act of writing has proved to be very therapeutic and freeing. The winter winds may blow again tomorrow, or next year, or not at all, but I will endeavor to keep my hands and heart busy for as long as possible, hoping that I am not in a cycle of seasons at all, but on the other side of an obstacle that has finally been overcome.

Better to write for yourself and have no public,
than to write for the public and have no self.
~ Cyril Connolly