On Writing

"I wrote an essay I'm kind of proud of today. And that hasn't happened in the whole year and a half I've been in the MFA program. It was the most fantastic day writing that I've ever had."

When I heard myself say this to a friend tonight, I had a couple of reactions to my own statement.

1) Really? In the past year and a half I haven't written anything I'm proud of? Nope. Check with my friend hmb--I haven't sent her anything I've written. And I usually do when I write something that makes me giggle.

2) What does that say about my MFA program? I like my program. I don't like the writing I do in it. Why is that? A question to explore...

3) I didn't leave my apartment until dinnertime. And I had a full day's work. It was as if I wasn't even home... I even forgot about lunch, I was so absorbed in my writing--and it wasn't boring. I mean, it's not boring to talk about. I can go out with friends and say, "work was interesting today... and I didn't even see anyone." Writing is an experience.

I don't think writing is always easy and absorbing. Or that it should be. But gosh darn it, it should be rewarding and productive sometimes. It's not that I think today's essay is the best thing since sliced bread... it's that I think it has potential. I think it's artistic, maybe poetic, and it's definitely different than anything else I've tried.

It is a lyric essay. Lyric meaning that it flows like a poem with a cadence, a rhythm, and imagery. Essay meaning that it's trying something, discussing something, and doesn't solve anything.

Maybe I should say that it felt like creating art.

Other times, when I've written something for workshop, it feels like pulling an anchor out of the water. The narrative is moored in mud. Getting it out of the mud requires standing on the bow and pulling with every ounce of body weight not used for balance. Once it's flowing, it's still hand-over-hand drudgery as the bowling ball of non-aerodynamic weight pushes against water and the water pushes back. Once the anchor is free of the water, it needs to be handled with great care so that it doesn't hit the boat, slosh water over the cushions, or dump mud on the white interior. Holding weight with a rope at an awkward angle is tedious.

But I had fun writing this essay. I read it aloud to myself, checking its sounds. Cringing at bold statements, I wondered if I might be burned at the stake if I publish it. And then I realized that I could publish this one. It could get to that point.

I just might be a writer.

"But, Renee!" You say with exasperation. "You already are a writer!"

Yes, I know. And you have been telling me that for years. But this day, I realized I might someday be a professional writer--providing the economy decides to smile again. And that (the professional writer part, not the economy part) makes me smile.