The Writing Life
There are times when the — or rather, my — writing life includes very (very) little writing. There are times when the louder demands of children and paid employment and housework are all I can hear. They obliterate the inner and outer silence that lets me hear the whispering of my heart: write.
I tell myself firmly, almost cruelly, that writers write and if I am not writing, I am not a writer. You can imagine how well that sits in the pit of my stomach. I tell myself firmly, almost cruelly, that if I truly were a writer, I would not be able to help writing, that the call to writing would not be a whisper easily ignored but an incredible shout that carries over whatever storm real life has whipped up.
But I also know that the part of me that writes is the part of me that exists only for myself, the bit that calls me by name at all times — never mother or friend or lover or wife or daughter — but by my own ineffable unknowable name. And somewhere along the line, I was taught (firmly, even cruelly) to keep that part quiet, keep it down, that it was less important than all the other parts, the mother-daughter-wife parts. And if I scold it for not writing, well, is that going to make it more likely to emerge, strong and cheerful and full of words? Or is it going to push it back into the sad darkness it was sent to when I was still small and hopeful?
It is amazing to me how many ways I have of being unkind to myself. The writer in me has survived enough punishment and so really, what am I thinking to be shouting at it so unkindly? It will not unfurl if it is being thumped, but only to a loving hand, outstretched. I know this is so. I wish that I did not forget.
Yet I trace the endless circle of learning that lesson over and over again and hope that the circle is in fact a spiral, that each time I tune out the writer and then learn to tune back in again — that perhaps the time between tuning out and tuning in will get shorter and shorter — and maybe even, someday, disappear.
Would it help, I wonder, to consider that in living a life, one is creating the reason for writing? Surely writing is born from within life, not independent of it. If one never stops to live, one has nothing to write.
I think this is partly true. However, writing is also born of reflection upon life lived and without time and space in which to reflect and write, no words have a chance to put onto paper. I suspect photographers experience something of the same disconnect. In order to take photographs, they must separate themselves from what is happening by a lens.
Have you read any Julie Myerson. She is a wife/mother of 3 and seems to have no problem putting writing ahead of her other callings.
Julie Myerson of Twilight fame? Not a writer I’m attempting to emulate. Also, bully for anyone who lacks the internal conflict I experience. That she — or anyone else — happily writes away while also doing the laundry and whatever else they have to do, does not mean that I struggle any less. If that makes me less of a heroine of the feminist revolution or some such twaddle, so be it.
Hi! Interesting thread…I agree with Lisa, that the fuel of one’s passion (i.e. writing) should be all the other things lived and experienced in life. I also agree with Francesca in that a space needs to be carved out in one’s life devoted to this passion, or it will either dry up, or explode. On the other hand, I think that anyone who puts their passion (whatever it may be) above their family is quickly going to shrivel up inside, having no spark left, no fuel for that passion at all. Its the person who has balance in their life, who has it all.
Francesca, your putting family first is admirable. It doesn’t make you less of a “heroine of the feminist revolution” but rather a genuinely good person. You know what is most important…just don’t forget to be kind to yourself, too.
Francesca, I love your website. It is simple to navigate, has some lovely content and great photos. Did you do it all yourself? I’d love to pick your brain about this since my current project is to design one for myself. How about when I get back from”down under” I give you a call?
Family is what makes our world engaging and lively…the perfect stuff for stories and long lasting memories. So much of my “formative years” has resurfaced in my writing whether I want it to or not. So, no guilt necessary when we raise our children. They are what inspire us to be better/stronger/smarter which makes us better at whatever we choose to do.