Does it make me odd that I have always loved writing, having a favorite type of pen (the Pilot G-2), being affectionately labeled a grammar nerd, yet I have always been extremely nervous about having others read my writing? So why in the world am I writing a blog? Let me attempt to answer...
When I was a writing undergrad (go ahead and scoff and ask me what I intended to do with that), before I found my calling to be a teacher, I clearly remember two points when I realized that I would never write as a profession. The first was when my brother told me that I wasn't screwed up enough to be a real writer. He truly said this jokingly, but it haunted me. I found myself near wishing for something tragic to happen just so I could have something to write about. My poems seemed trite. Forced short stories. It took me a long time to realize that my life was already made of tragic pieces...still is...nothing grand or historic, but I lived/live a flawed life nonetheless.
The second harsh awakening came while I read Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet for the first time. I often return to this slim volume of wisdom for creative refreshment and as a reminder of why I love writing, when I know it in the deepest parts of myself, but I can't voice why. When I can't write why:
"Search for the reason that bids you write: find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write. This above all - ask yourself in the stillest hour of the night: must I write?" I found that I could not equate death with being denied writing. At the time, that was a small death for me: to realize that I would not be a writer. What was I going to do with my major now? It was too late to switch, and I honestly couldn't think of something I enjoyed more. But Rilke also reminds me:
"...to be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to live the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now." I still struggle with this lesson in contentment. But I cherish it.
Sometimes, words are not enough to express life. Authors and artists try, sometimes convincingly and authentically, but I don't know if it always possible. This meager blog is being required of me by a journalism class, yes, but through it, I will at least pretend to be the screwed-up writer that I used to think I couldn't be. I also hope that through it I can attempt to write and to live some of the questions.
Ah, I have a favorite pen too, although I most typically use the cheap red Bic ones because I go through them so quickly and tend to leave them places. I look forward to reading more of your stuff, Erin! Where are you student teaching?
ReplyDeleteYeah, the Pilot G-2 is a bit more expensive, so I try to just buy the refills. I like them because they feel like how I imagine writing with an old-time pen would feel like.
ReplyDeleteMy first placement is at St. Paul Central HS, where I'll be teaching mainly 11th grade mythology. And then I'm on to an undetermined middle school.