 |
| Photo by Richard H. Hahn, Jan. 15, 2015 |
Ever since I stopped steeping myself in grief all the time, I've lost some of my direction as a writer. What is there to say, when there is everything to say, suddenly? When my eyes are open to all of life again? My smile isn't forced anymore; I walk into my apartment at the end of a day and feel only happy gratitude for the orange tulips M. has left on my table to greet me. When I sit down at my computer each night, the world seems so open to endless possibility that I feel stumped. What should I write? Do I have anything to write, other than grief?
Doubt whispers in my ear. Were you ever any good, or were you just writing about topics so extreme that people wanted to read them? If you're happy, how can you possibly have anything to say?
Then tonight, I attended the annual Boulder Writers' Workshop Member Showcase and Recognition event, and remembered that I am not just a writer alone in a dark apartment at midnight, but a member of a community of writers. The keynote speaker, Gail Storey, reminded us all that our work as writers is to "bear witness" to others, to create an offering of love to the world. Storey warned us that it is fear that stops us, preventing us from mustering up the courage to transform with our art.
I listened, and remembered: I was a writer long before grief. Maybe, for a time, I needed to pour all of my art into sadness, but now I'm ready to write about parenting, teaching, hiking, Colorado, marriage, being gay, adoption, travel, technology, violence, aging, writing, love. I'm ready to create characters in fiction again. I'm ready to explore the world's problems through science fiction, to suggest happy endings in romances, to experiment in literary fiction. I'm ready, like I've been in a white-hot fire and emerged pure. I'm edgier, wiser, a little more anxious, but ready.
At the showcase tonight, I read my Long's Peak essay, which the BWW was kind enough to award the annual "Editors' Choice" award for essays published in the Flatirons Literary Review. It was strange, to read an essay that did not flay open sadness, or only consider death. "A Woman on Long's Peak" is ultimately about the joy of being alive in a majestic, wild, and dangerous place. It's also about being part of a community of women who summited the mountain once, too. I'm not alone. As a hiker, as a writer, as a person: I'm not alone.
Some morose Germanic part of me wants to insist that great literature can't arise from joy. But maybe it should. I think I'll silence Doubt, whose other name is Fear, and just write. Charley Parkhurst needs me to write him a lesbian version of his story, and I've got a scared girl character trapped in a future in which everyone texts and no one talks face-to-face. I need to reveal some truths about education, and I need to record the experience of parenting Mitike right now. I need to espouse my opinions about the death penalty and about gay marriage, and I need to write some good essays about love and relationships. Ah, it feels good to make such a list! Every night, I write, but every night lately, I've begun with Doubt. No more. I'll read and re-read this blog post instead, as my opening ritual.
Lately, in the midst of quite a bit of happiness blooming in my life, I've caught myself playing the saboteur, searching for reasons to worry or to be a little sad. I start worrying about finding a college job (which I'd love), or about whether I should move to Denver, or about what I'll do for my parents when they become elderly (they're all in their 60s and are currently fine), or about whether I'm parenting my child well enough that I'll prevent her from becoming a dysfunctional adult (she's currently 8). It's all fear. It's that I'm afraid the happiness won't stay. But tonight, I'm considering this: I was so intent on detailing every aspect of my experience of sadness; I was so certain my journey required me to hold grief up and examine it closely from all angles. Why should I not do the same with happiness? Maybe a good writer's responsibility is to seek to witness the entire range of human experience.
I love to look at this photograph I've posted with this text, a photograph my dad, a professional photographer, took a couple of weeks ago. The immensity of the universe -- all those stars! -- reminds me I haven't even begun.
Time to keep writing.
