Why I Can't Write: The Far Side of the U ? Crazy People

I haven?t posted in a long long time. On the one hand, I?ve been really busy: I?ve been overseeing: 1) the re-stuccoing of the house, 2) the installing of the a pool, hot tub, and water slide, and 3) the tending of animals, including recently acquired farm animals ranging from goats to ducks to a donkey and a horse.

Two of the reasons I haven?t been writing: On the left, Misty the Horse; and on the right, Buddy the Donkey

On the other hand, my life?s almost always been busy. I?ve always had jobs and responsibilities yet managed to find time to write, so I?m not completely sure why I haven?t taken time to write.

I need to write. When I don?t write, my mind goes off in a myriad of directions. I lose focus, get angry about things that don?t matter, and settle into bed each night feeling hopeless than I?ve let one more day get by without chronicling what?s been going on for me.

Part of it, I know, is that I bought a laptop with the intention of writing at the other end of the house. This is a big house, a sprawling U-shaped adobe, and I normally write in my office, which is the top of the left side of the U. Lately I?ve been trying to write at the top of the right side of the U. And, for whatever reason, I?ve been unsuccessful.

It could be that when I?m writing on the far side of the U, that I?m uncomfortable, that the leather recliner, which is fairly awesome for TV watching, is no good for writing. Could be that my laptop is better for shopping on ebay or Amazon than for writing. Could be any number of things. Whatever the case, the far side of the U is not conducive to my writing.

My suspicion is that when I?m writing back there in the bedroom is that I?m writing on Microsoft Word; I?m not blogging, and I think that I no longer know how to write without a reader.

Maybe I never knew how to write without a reader.

When I first stated to write, I was in second grade. I wrote for Sister Mary Earl of the Dominican Order. She was my biggest fan and best coach. She returned my unfinished stories, always assuming the reason I hadn?t finished was that I?d run out of time.

She was right.

But when I was writing in the second grade back so many years ago at St. Joseph?s in Bay City, Michigan, I was writing for her, to her. I had a reader, an audience.

Then, in 1982, when I wrote ?Six Hours in July,? a chronicle of the birth of my daughter, I was writing for the LaMaze class. We were having a get together after our babies were born and we were asked to bring in our birth stories.

So again, I was writing for someone. I was writing to communicate.

When I worked at The Community Advisor and?The Chino Champion, weekly newspapers in Southern California, I was writing for the the people who may or may not have been interested in what the school board and the city council were doing.

Then in grad school, I wrote for the workshops, for the students, for the instructor. I wrote plays that I knew would be produced. I knew I was writing for someone, someone who would read or watch what I?d written.

It?s not so much that I had a clear-cut idea of who that reader or audience member was. When I wrote for the newspapers, I didn?t imagine a certain person sitting down over breakfast and reading about the school board and city council members bickering, but I knew someone was reading. I was relaying what had happened.

In other words, I was telling a story to someone about something that had happened. For me, it was very much like having a conversation: I would say (write) something, knowing someone was listening (reading). Granted, it was a one-sided conversation, and I didn?t always get feedback. (Working on the newspapers, I rarely got feedback. In grad school, I always got feedback.)

The point though, for me, is that I don?t know how to write (or speak) if no one is reading (or listening). I can?t write in a vacuum.

And it?s funny because I don?t know or care how many people may or may not read this blog. My husband keeps track of all his readers and followers. The more he has, the happier he is.

I?m not like that. The number of people who may or may not read this blog doesn?t matter to me. It?s the public arena that matters. It?s the knowing that someone somewhere may stumble upon this blog and read what I?ve written (heard what I?ve said.)

If someone reads, then my words matter. If I?m speaking and someone, then what I say matters. How many people hear doesn?t matter. I?ve always preferred one-on-one anyway. (Could be that?s why I?m a writer. It?s the intimacy of the written word. It?s knowing that I?m getting in someone?s head.)

In grad school and then later when I first married Jonathan, I dabbled in screenwriting. That?s not my forte, it?s not my love or passion; the written word is. Given a choice between reading a novel or seeing a movie, I will generally go for the novel. I like the intimacy; it?s as if the author is talking only to me.

The exception here are action movies. I like the sound of explosions and gun fire, squealing brakes and shouting. I like the frenetic pace of people scrambling to escape aliens and asteroids, deadly storms and sharks. I like that.

But even with mysteries, which have their own level of action, I much prefer the book. I prefer being privy to the main character?s thoughts as opposed to simply viewing his (or her) actions.

Take the Jack Reacher novels by Lee Child. Hollywood has turned one of them into a movie starring Tom Cruise. I?m not sure I?ll even see that movie because Jack Reacher is tall; this is a part of his character. He reflects constantly on his height, and he reflects constantly on his being an intentional drifter. That won?t translate. There?s no way Cruise, who is much too short to be Reacher anyway, can convey on his face Reacher?s reflections on his past.

The movie, successful or not, will never be the intimate experience the book is.

And I know I am now far beyond what I was originally writing about: my inability to write on the far side of the U.

But I?m okay with that because I am once again writing.

Source: http://maureencooke.com/why-cant-i-write

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