WordSisters

Category: Writing

  • Perils of Being a Writer

    OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERACrystel shuffles out of her bedroom, rubbing her eyes. The rest of us have been up for hours. In fact, Antonio has about used up all of his allotted time with electronics. I briefly look up at her. She’s grown taller in the night, I think. She stretches out her form before flopping down next to me on the couch.

    “Good morning, dear.”

    She mumbles, “Good morning.” She leans casually towards me. We’re now bumping shoulders.

    I return to reviewing my manuscript and drop my eyes to the computer.

    “I knew it,” she says. “I knew it! I knew you were going to say it one day!” She jumps up and runs out of the room.

    “What!” I say, alarmed.

    I look down at the writing on my laptop and immediately know what happened. There in black and white it says Antonio and Crystel aren’t my children….

    “Crystel! Crystel! Come back here!” I leap off the couch. Yelling upstairs, I say, “Antonio is Crystel up there!”

    “No, she’s not.”

    Rushing down the basement steps, I holler, “Crystel, you need to come back and talk to me. Crystel, where are you!” It’s dark and quiet in the basement.

    I rush back upstairs to where Antonio is. “Antonio are you telling me the truth? Is Crystel upstairs?”

    “She’s not up here. She never came up here.”

    I’m in a bit of a panic. What could Crystel think, and if she won’t talk to me, then what? And is it true that she has always thought that I was going to say that she’s not mine?

    “Crystel, you need to come here.”

    I hear behind me, “You couldn’t find me.” She seems pleased with this.

    “No, I couldn’t find you. Now, sit down.” I’m relieved she actually does.

    “If you are going to read something that I am writing, you need to read all of it or ask a question. You reading part of a sentence is like coming into a conversation part way or seeing only part of an elephant. You aren’t getting the whole story.”

    “Now, look at this.” I point to the paragraph: Antonio and Crystel aren’t my children to own or to have or to keep. Finding their birthmoms, reuniting the mom with their child, promising to bring Antonio and Crystel back every two years to Guatemala continues restoring me to health.

    “What this means is that you aren’t an object for me to own. You are your own person. Not mine. Now if we scroll up here, it says, When I say to them, you can count on me, I absolutely mean it.” I look in her eyes. “You are my daughter. I would do anything for you.”

    This seems to satisfy her. Crystel is often interested in what I write. When she came upon me reviewing the last blog I wrote about her being interested in the bathroom scale, she read it. She laughed and laughed. Now she will have another blog to read: The Perils of Being a Writer.

    At bedtime we will have that other talk, in case she really is expecting to hear me say she isn’t really my daughter. Hmmmm.

  • Writing is a vocation that picks a person

    Each week, you’ll hear from one of the WordSisters. This time, it’s Ellen.

    One sunny autumn day, my husband and I lunched on our porch and planned the classes we might like to take during the lo n n n g Minnesota winter.

    “Music is my hobby and writing is yours, so…” he started to say.

    “Hobby!?!” my voice veered into a screech. I heard the vehemence but was unable to stop.

    “Writing is not my hobby. For me, gardening is a hobby. Making jewelry is a hobby. Writing is NOT a hobby.”

    I caught my breath, then resumed, “I have been a writer as for long as I can remember. Even as a girl, I searched for the words to describe what I saw and how I felt. I kept journals and wrote stories.” John put his soup spoon down and listened, eyebrows raised.

    “I just meant that we don’t make a living at playing music or writing essays . . . .”

    His reasonable comment frustrated me even more. I wasn’t getting through. He had to understand. I tried again, “I was a writer long before I met you or became a mother. And God forbid, if I were no longer your wife or the boys’ mother, I’d still be a writer. I can’t stop being a writer—and believe me, I’ve tried.” Long a manager, he had learned not to let his face betray his emotions in front of troubled or troublesome employees, but I could see he was listening intently.

    Calmer and almost resigned, I said, “There have been so many times when I felt like a talentless wonder and tried to swear off writing as a pointless pursuit. The last time I wanted to give it up, a very wise writer named Emily Meier told me, ‘Writing is a vocation that picks a person. No practical person would pick it!’ And she’s right. I can’t stop being a writer—even though I want to sometimes. Whether I like it or not, I’m a writer.”

    I ended my fierce soliloquy, sat back, and assessed his reaction. Now that my rant was over, he allowed emotion to flow back into his features. He looked taken aback and frustrated.

    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I guess I didn’t choose the best word.”

    I felt bad for jumping down his throat. But after 25 years of marriage, it would take more than this to rock our boat. I squeezed his hand, then leaned across the table to kiss him.

    “I’m sorry, too.”

    “So, as I was saying,” he said, “Music is my hobby and writing is your passion . . . ”

    “Yes, it is.” Our eyes met and we smiled.