Oops...where'd the time go?

Puxatony Phil just announced there will be 6 more weeks of winter. "If only", was my first reaction; Minnesota winters rarely end by mid-March. My next thought was to realize its been most of the winter since I jotted down a thought or two on this blog. The habit of regular writing has always been a hard one to establish. A couple of years ago a woman I know through work (and riding the bus) began telling me of her interest in writing children's stories. She had recently won an award for one of her short stories and had begun work on her first novel. Her mother was so excited about it that she helped her daughter set up and fund an annual writing contest. The prize is awarded to the best "short story" written on a selected theme each year. "Just write something every day", she would tell me.

This advice echoes what I've grown up hearing in other settings- keep a journal, jot down thoughts and feelings, create a record of experiences and moments of gratitude. Years ago I wrote a series of essays about the 1980s. Reading those now sort of makes me cringe because they were written by a younger me at a time in life when I had a pretty inflated sense of myself. Uffdah! Recently my sister gave me a nice new journal which sits on my nightstand...mostly gathering dust next to a couple other nearly empty journals I've acquired over the years. Each was purchased with similar good intentions. And yet in spite of these good intentions and how inspired I've felt at times to fill these journals with pithy prose, the habit of regular writing remains largely unformed. So I ask myself what my excuse is and where did the time go.

The truth is that my excuses are pretty thin. Part of it may be that I haven't defined my audience. Another may be the unflattering truth that I kind of yearn for an audience to encourage and cajole me to "write me another story". I don't know, but writing for myself seems a little narcissistic as does "writing for my posterity". Call it false humility, but my life isn't really ginning out the kind of experiences or events that make for a real page turner. No close encounters with wandering bandits, international terrorists or laughable comedians. Sure the people I live, work and interact with each have their own rich and interesting lives, with stories that have the normal ups and downs mingled with excitement. But it would take a higher level of skill than I possess to really capture their essence and do justice to their stories.

I'd like to think I have the potential to become a good writer that could tell interesting stories based on my experiences or the experiences of those I've met. Maybe even write a novel someday. And yet thus far I've lacked the fundamental discipline or creativity or inspiration or bankroll or cottage on the lake or driving competitiveness, or whatever else it is that's needed to succeed as a writer a world where "pretty good" writers are a dime a dozen.

Just writing that last paragraph has helped me realize that part of the reason I haven't cultivated the talent or formed the habit of regular writing is fear. Fear of wasting time, fear of writing something truly uninspiring, fear of laying it on the line and putting my heart and soul into something that others then find as stale as day old bread. Which is really a pretty poor excuse if you think about it. Because much of the value of writing comes the same way that learning comes to a teacher. The person attempting to teach regularly learns more than the student. Perhaps too with the writer: he just may learn a thing or two more than a reader could ever possibly do. In the process of creating and distilling and crafting the words into sentences and paragraphs, thoughts connect, themes emerge and direction appears. Finding a way to capture that process and preserve it for future reference is the key.

There is a more subtle form of fear lurking there in the shadows. And that is the fear of being either so boring or so irrelevant that whatever you write really doesn't matter to anybody. I've had the experience of reading my own journal entries from years past and thinking, "that's sure boring stuff" or "what a waste of paper and ink". Perhaps that's why the best writers find new and interesting ways to describe adventurous characters engaged in swashbuckling events. Its much harder to breathe life into the creases of everyday events. Yet there is certainly beauty in the routine and the mundane details of life. The challenge is to find the right words that reveal that beauty for all to see and enjoy.