Identities, new and old
When I was in Utah in August, I did something I'd never done before. I needed to see a chiropractor and got a recommendation, and I had to fill out paperwork at his office. Name, address, occupation, we are all familiar, medical history. Under occupation, I put two things instead of one: homemaker and writer. I have had some years where I had work descriptions to fill in, small part-time jobs, but I had never thought of myself as a writer, in any way that I would declare to the world, before this year. A 'maybe-someday' writer, a potential writer, but not an actual, concrete writer.
The doctor ushered me in, glancing over my forms, and said, "It says here that you're a writer. What kind of a writer? Are you a journalist? Free-lance work?"
"No, well, I have a blog--of course lots of people have blogs--but I write a column for a new Mormon online journal called the Nauvoo Times. It just started up in May." He was interested, hadn't heard of it yet, and promised to look it up. I thought, only here in Utah can you talk about Church topics with almost anyone. He was interested that we were going up to the Brigham City Temple open house, said he couldn't persuade his teenagers that they should go--it's two hours up from Provo. (We went overnight to take our kids to see the temple in Spokane. We would go two hours in a heartbeat.)
I've written some poetry, but not so much or so recently that I would presume to declare my identity as "Poet." I tried to get a reader columnist spot for the local newspaper, but wasn't selected, so I couldn't claim anything there. There are some wonderful blogs, but anyone can start a blog, that alone doesn't give me credence. All of my writing had basically been for myself, shared sometimes with individuals. I did have an essay published in a compilation by Deseret Book from BYU-Relief Society Women's Conference one year, for an honorarium of $50. Not exactly a livelihood. I do have a major project that has languished, put away for too many years; when I pulled it out last fall to continue with it if I could, we found out that we would have the temporary full-time care of a grandson--when I planned on devoting my summer to it this year, I had another auto accident and spent the summer schedule with lots of therapy and impaired function. I'm not ramped up yet to tackling it. I still hope I might succeed, but maybe I won't.
I was making my usual morning visit to Planet Kathy one day last week, where she invited us to make our own identities. She, of course, is Queen of the Universe, brook no disagreements on that score! I thought about how I would define and declare myself; I thought about it at odd moments over a couple of days, and I thought about me as a writer, something sort of new. I felt compelled to go back and declare something, even though the post date had passed. Teacher was without question, and "master teacher" I think is true. I thought about me as writer, and thought of "weaver of words," but that would be someone who can form spell-binding stories with his words, someone like Orson Scott Card, not me. In my drawing class, I muttered at something that was challenging me that my skill set was with words, not pencil shading, and my friend Yvonne (who got me into this) looked at me and said, "Words--they're really like toys for you, aren't they?" Yes, they're like blocks, different colors and designs; turn them over this way and that, pull that one out of the tower and stick this one in instead. Rotate the image for perspective, choose the exact shade and juxtaposition of them. Put it down and come back a little later and look at it again, make it work a little better. "Crafter of Words" fits me. I do have a gift for using words, and teaching, and those are pretty closely related, I think. I'm happy with those.
When I was nudged into starting this blog, all the ideas in my head clamored, "me, me!" and kept me awake at night, composing phrases and pondering concepts. I was at the point, after a couple of months, where I could turn them off firmly and go to sleep, more secure that they would not simply vanish away, when I was asked by Madame Kathy if I would be interested in participating in a new venture, an online journal which turned out to be the Nauvoo Times. I felt a combination of exhilaration and panic when I found out that it was Orson Scott Card who was launching this undertaking, my writing idol (see my profile, under favorite books!) and who would decide if I was acceptable. I was back to not going to sleep for the parade of words and phrases through my head. The anxiety is diminishing, and I have a whole list of ideas jotted down which will find their own time and place either here on the blog or there in my column, and I am finding that I have spiritual help and guidance when I need it for both. This has been a clarifying and growing process. I never would have expected the opportunity to write for more than myself or those I already know, though I wanted to. I think I can now think of myself as a writer, with possibilities.
So, Kathy, it's still all your fault, and thank you!
The doctor ushered me in, glancing over my forms, and said, "It says here that you're a writer. What kind of a writer? Are you a journalist? Free-lance work?"
"No, well, I have a blog--of course lots of people have blogs--but I write a column for a new Mormon online journal called the Nauvoo Times. It just started up in May." He was interested, hadn't heard of it yet, and promised to look it up. I thought, only here in Utah can you talk about Church topics with almost anyone. He was interested that we were going up to the Brigham City Temple open house, said he couldn't persuade his teenagers that they should go--it's two hours up from Provo. (We went overnight to take our kids to see the temple in Spokane. We would go two hours in a heartbeat.)
I've written some poetry, but not so much or so recently that I would presume to declare my identity as "Poet." I tried to get a reader columnist spot for the local newspaper, but wasn't selected, so I couldn't claim anything there. There are some wonderful blogs, but anyone can start a blog, that alone doesn't give me credence. All of my writing had basically been for myself, shared sometimes with individuals. I did have an essay published in a compilation by Deseret Book from BYU-Relief Society Women's Conference one year, for an honorarium of $50. Not exactly a livelihood. I do have a major project that has languished, put away for too many years; when I pulled it out last fall to continue with it if I could, we found out that we would have the temporary full-time care of a grandson--when I planned on devoting my summer to it this year, I had another auto accident and spent the summer schedule with lots of therapy and impaired function. I'm not ramped up yet to tackling it. I still hope I might succeed, but maybe I won't.
I was making my usual morning visit to Planet Kathy one day last week, where she invited us to make our own identities. She, of course, is Queen of the Universe, brook no disagreements on that score! I thought about how I would define and declare myself; I thought about it at odd moments over a couple of days, and I thought about me as a writer, something sort of new. I felt compelled to go back and declare something, even though the post date had passed. Teacher was without question, and "master teacher" I think is true. I thought about me as writer, and thought of "weaver of words," but that would be someone who can form spell-binding stories with his words, someone like Orson Scott Card, not me. In my drawing class, I muttered at something that was challenging me that my skill set was with words, not pencil shading, and my friend Yvonne (who got me into this) looked at me and said, "Words--they're really like toys for you, aren't they?" Yes, they're like blocks, different colors and designs; turn them over this way and that, pull that one out of the tower and stick this one in instead. Rotate the image for perspective, choose the exact shade and juxtaposition of them. Put it down and come back a little later and look at it again, make it work a little better. "Crafter of Words" fits me. I do have a gift for using words, and teaching, and those are pretty closely related, I think. I'm happy with those.
When I was nudged into starting this blog, all the ideas in my head clamored, "me, me!" and kept me awake at night, composing phrases and pondering concepts. I was at the point, after a couple of months, where I could turn them off firmly and go to sleep, more secure that they would not simply vanish away, when I was asked by Madame Kathy if I would be interested in participating in a new venture, an online journal which turned out to be the Nauvoo Times. I felt a combination of exhilaration and panic when I found out that it was Orson Scott Card who was launching this undertaking, my writing idol (see my profile, under favorite books!) and who would decide if I was acceptable. I was back to not going to sleep for the parade of words and phrases through my head. The anxiety is diminishing, and I have a whole list of ideas jotted down which will find their own time and place either here on the blog or there in my column, and I am finding that I have spiritual help and guidance when I need it for both. This has been a clarifying and growing process. I never would have expected the opportunity to write for more than myself or those I already know, though I wanted to. I think I can now think of myself as a writer, with possibilities.
So, Kathy, it's still all your fault, and thank you!
Here's wishing you the best of luck!
ReplyDeleteWell, of course writing a blog makes you a writer! But if you were to see mine (chippep@earthlink.net), you might wonder what I am. (I'm a retired accountant). Your sister Alison was the one who got me started a few years ago. So, go for it!
Go Marian!
ReplyDeleteDid I ever tell you, I'm sure I did, about the doctor who looked at my brain scan and eeg results and out of the blue, as far as I knew, asked me, Mrs. Hyde. Do you like to write? Then he said my (insert buzzwords here) were hyper and he'd seen that in people who were writers--matter of fact, mine was so much so that he was considering putting me on anti-epileptics.
Don't. you. touch. that. was my unspoken response. He didn't.
So yes, we're natural-born writers. Or you could say brain damaged. It's all good.
Yes, I recall the story, and yes, we grew up both playing with words and understanding their value. And the beauty they could contain--poets and playwrights were quoted often, and of course the scriptures. Add the art and music, and we had quite a remarkable upbringing. Yup, it's all very good.
ReplyDelete