One day many years ago now, Angie said to me, “It doesn’t seem like you enjoy writing any more.” Perhaps she only wanted to stop my complaining and despair. Perhaps it was an observation she couldn’t hold back. She’s without guile; it was true, though it rose up in me to protest.
Instead, silent, I shifted. (Or maybe I only remember the shift, and think I was silent. It’s likely I said a great deal, either in expression or words or both.) I changed my attitude, worked my way like a baby at birth with broad shoulders through the narrow path of what had happened and a sense of failure that had come from early success and the resounding silence that followed it. (Another false silence, a remembered silence–perhaps the only kind of silence is remembered silence?)
I stepped deeper into writing. I faced the fear and developed muscles for facing the fear. I learned the triumph of holding a different posture for a long time, and the strength that results.
The goal–to enjoy writing–did not supercede the other goals–completion, success–not at first and not yet completely. But it changed my course. It became a truer north. It reminded me of the early thrills of getting it on the page, of the flow of an idea into a sentence, the way an image could shimmer from a paragraph. The something that could come from nothing, answers to my own widest questions, answers that sustained, that sufficed.
Now, in the quiet minutes of the morning–let’s not pretend there are hours sandwiched between sleep and breakfast for kids, dog, partner–but in the full silence of these minutes, I touch the deep, settled interior of my own wondering. I launch out and explore. I fill the gaps with something that makes me think, makes me smile. Writing is the ordinary beloved, filling me with peace. Amazing.