Subject--let the writing pick one.

This is one of those days when so many thoughts are ricocheting in my head I can't single one out for my journaling. They're each screaming, thinking they are the cutest, and they want me to pick them to write about.

The thing is--I want to write about them all at once. I wish I had ten hands and I'd assigned each pair of hands a different topic. One pair of hands would write on the connection of the erotic to creativity, the second pair of hands would write about art--how cool it is, the third pair of hands would write about how I sometimes worry over what I say but when it's too late to take it back, the fourth pair of hands would write about the tons of dreams I have had about houses (had a new one last night), and the fifth pair of hands would write about how when I'm not writing my soul is a little down on the "if you're happy and you know it" meter.

I honestly believe I could be writing an essay to a tree (and I'm not putting down the importance of trees here, by all means) and I would be gleeful about tree essays. I mean if my audience happened to be trees, I wouldn't have to go far to look for them, they couldn't tell me they didn't like what I'd written, and I could always take those breezes that shake their limbs back and forth as the trees' nods of approval. My next question is--why have I been writing to people for so long?

Something about generating writing begins this gentle hum inside me. I truly believe it is addictive--this hum thing. The endorphins in there are having one rousing good time. Even though I can sense my heartbeat start to hurry to keep up with the words on the page, there is still a rhythm to the hurriedness, a rhythm that is soul soothing.

So why don't I do this writing thing for the entire day? Because there are budding freshman who I want to teach about the hum of writing, because there are bookstore customers who I want to put books into their hands that will start this hum inside them as they read the pages where someone else took time to tell a story. Because a lot of other reasons not nearly as lofty as those I just mentioned.

In the past, there have been days where I've written from the moment I wake through to suppertime. (Forget writing until bedtime; I'm never going to do that in my life.) I will stop for food, however. My muse gets word fatigue after about three to four hours of pen to page. It's unfortunate, but she doesn't experience the writing hum in the same way I do. She starts twisting this one strand of hair over and over on the back of her head, and I begin to worry that she's going to go bald, so I stop.

When I was writing my novel, I had many obligations at the time and figured there was no way I could get to Marjorie (my main character) as much as I wanted. And since I had set my goals to be a good writer and write long hours and long days and get done and prosper forever and ever amen, and since this goal was not obtainable, I let Marjorie's words slip into the background of my days instead of trying to negotiate a deal with her.

Well, when I had gone without the hum for long enough, I returned to the draft of the novel and dialogued with Marjorie about our predicament. Often as I wrote the novel I would dialogue with Marjorie as a way of processing what was going on with me, what was going on with the characters, what was going on with my muse and that hair-twisting thing. Marjorie was all wise and knowing. If you ever want a therapist who you don't have to pay but who is way smarter than you are, start a novel and dialogue with your main character. It will change your life and hair-twisting habit.

"I can't handle writing on this novel for periods of eight hours at a time." This was what I told Marjorie.

"Why?" She was alway curious like that. You couldn't get away with a simple answer and think it was going to get approval just because you had written it down.

"Well, I have two jobs, two children, three dogs, a husband, no housekeeper, no butler, and I'm not the Queen of Energy either."

"Hmmm." That meant she was thinking it over. You're always afraid that can't be good.
"How many pages do you think you can manage at one sitting?" she asked.

I thought about what she'd asked and the number seven popped in my head. "Seven."

"Okay, then. From now on I will only give you seven handwritten pages of my story at a time."

"Really?" I asked this like I had never considered the possibility of my character providing me a certain amount of her story for each writing session. Instantly, I felt delighted about writing again.

"It's a deal then." She wanted to make sure she had my promise. Sometimes she was kind of a baby like that. If we were in the room together as physical beings, she probably would have made us prick our fingers.

After that dialogue with Marjorie, she always gave me seven pages of handwirtten story each time I sat down to write--no more, no less. And I never felt overburdened by the time aspect of writing.

I guess what I'm saying is even a good hum can only last so long. Compare it, if you will, to any other good feelings you know and the length that they last. I enjoy the hum of writing whenever I get the chance. When there are ten hands' worth of subjects in my brain, I let the writing pick one and get on with the humming. It feels so good. You should try it.

ks
2005 Copyright Shelnutt