W.B. Yeats speaks to the greatest wish of all writers – and eloquently so.
All the words I gather,
And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring,
And never rest in their flight,
Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,
And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving,
Storm darkened or starry bright
W.B. Yeats
London, January 1892
I’ve saved every blank book I ever filled – from the first hardbound, mottled watercolor cover to the psychedelic smiley faces. All but the most recent sit high upon a shelf, my own little archive of embarrassing moments.
Every so often – when I have to move my collection from point a to point b, when I’m feeling nostalgic, or looking for a particular passage – I’ll skim the pages and revisit my words, my state of being at that point in time. Sometimes the words are merely confessional, the quintessential catharsis for which we all count on ‘dear diary’. Sometimes the paragraphs give way to great insight. Sometimes, I read a passage that takes my breath away, that makes me flush with the way the words are crafted, the beauty and power of their make-up. I crafted such quality? My God, I really can write. And then I find the author’s attribute, my little indent and dash noting the actual author’s name. Drat. Foiled again.
Though even in that moment just before I discover the author’s name, as I still unbelievingly read ‘my words’, it’s not a self-congratulatory moment. There’s always a shock and awe involved. A pinch-myself moment where I get a glimpse of the holy grail of writing. Is it really possible? For me? By me?
But then, a few months ago, out of the blue, my aunt asked me what were some of the favorite things I’d written on this blog. A few irreverent attempts at humor came to mind; the inaugural post explaining what all these potatoes are, of course. When I actually dove into the blog to review, I realized just how much writing I’ve done on here. Lots to sift through! And lots to reorganize, I realized (so I – and hopefully you – can find it all).
A day or so later, I received an email from that same aunt with a link to a video. A marketing and public relations professional by trade, she’d been working with a new platform and wanted to share it with me. I clicked, eager to see what she’d created. Striking images flowed across the screen, dovetailing each other seamlessly. Sentences strung together over them told a story.
It wasn’t until nearly halfway through the video that I realized they were my words.
The same shock and awe that usually came over me as I read evocative passages in my journals occurred – only this time, it was I who had penned the words. The shock and awe were accompanied by gratification. And a little disbelief. My journal dreams may yet come true.
The video that started it all . . .
Thanks to Janet Crook for helping me visualize in more ways than one.
In years past, WordPress has provided a neat little summary of the past year’s writing accomplishments on my blog. I didn’t receive one this year. Whether that’s because it’s no longer their practice or because my level of writing activity dipped below their radar remains to be seen. I did, however, receive this neat little notification the other day.
500 posts. That’s a lot of writing. In my six years (wo)manning this blog, I have written many posts. My aunt recently asked me which post or posts were my favorite(s). A few came to mind instantaneously, of course, but once I started digging through, I realized just how many there are –
which helps provide balance to the writer’s remorse that I haven’t done more lately.
Once upon a time, Tuesday and Thursday were sacred posting days, with Fridays as an occasional musing on craft (my weekend write-off). I’m still unpacking the irony that my writing on mental health paused or ceased when things got really crazy last spring and by the end of the summer/fall when I’d ceased my medication. It didn’t help that I had another small human pulling at my pant leg. I’ve also tried to reignite a dedicated writing regimen for my young adult fiction and personal memoir. Something’s gotta give, I suppose, in my anxiety-ridden, mom-of-four, only-24-hours-in-a-day world.
Still, when I didn’t receive the adorable fireworks animation comparing my readership to the size of small countries, the writer’s remorse kicked in big time. What were my dedicated readers doing whilst I whiled time away with laundry and survival? How were my fellow bloggers doing since I’d checked in last? While the schedule of blogging can be daunting, especially in the midst of daily overwhelm, the process of crafting and posting and interacting is therapeutic for my writing and mental muscles. I miss the community – and the potential that the blog has.
I have chopped lots of potatoes over the years. I’m going to keep chopping. Some days may produce uniform little cubes; others hackneyed hunks. But it’s good to be back – even in a smashed capacity.
The Last Days of Rabbit Hayes by Anna McPartlin
My most recent read, devoured well into the wee hours of the morning because I haven’t yet gotten off my holiday schedule and accepted the fact that I have to be up soon in the morning. And because it was that compelling.
Rabbit. Johnny. Juliet. There is so much that’s good about this heartbreaking and hilarious book, but it’s a particular scene of dialogue I want to shine the spotlight on today.
So tight, so fluid, so funny. One of those scenes you read and instantly know it’s gold. The kind of writing you strive to achieve. The fact that it’s got some great Irish wit just endears it to me even more.
Grace walked through the front door with her suitcase. Before she had her coat off, Lenny was halfway down the stairs. When she saw his face, she covered her eyes with her hands. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I have no idea what happened.’
He held her close and kissed the top of her head. ‘You lost it.’
‘I hurt you.’
‘It was an accident.’
‘I threw a mug at your face on purpose.’
‘I should have ducked quicker.’
‘If this conversation was the other way around, you apologizing for hurting me and me making excuses for you, people would call it domestic violence.’
He laughed. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Grace. We’ve been together for twenty years and this is the first mug-in-the-face incident we’ve had. I think I’m safe enough.’
‘I’m so, so, so sorry.’
They walked together into the kitchen.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Now can we forget it?’ He put on the kettle and she sat down on a stool facing him. ‘Toast?’
‘Yes, please. I’m starving.’
The Last Days of Rabbit Hayes, Anna McPartlin, 2014
Chopping Potatoes 