Writers write. Unless, of course, you are me. I have known from day one that I wanted to be a writer. Ok, since I can’t positively identify the exact moment it was that I knew I wanted to write let’s put it around kindergarten. I have loved books since I was a baby. Ask my mom, she’ll vouch for me. Some children’s’ books, although I can’t recall the story, have etched their images in my mind. Pictures that helped develop my world and feed my imagination. One of my all time favourites - “The Little Engine That Could”. Who wouldn’t love a happy, blue, smiley train that wants to deliver toys to children?
I have a memory of my 8th birthday. We lived in Lakeville. Our house was beautiful. We had a blue two-story, with white trim. The porch was a haven; for watching the evening sky descend, families out for after-dinner walks or bike rides, and the best seat in the house for thunderstorms. (During thunderstorms we were promptly ushered to the basement and set up with a radio tuned in to WCCO and a red-orange flashlight with a cushy white button that you would press hard to summon the beam – the flashlight we would inevitably fight over, and our parents would go survey the house ensure all the windows had been closed and they would be gone for so long that we would sneak upstairs. Panicked that they had been swept up by a sudden tornado we would search for them until we found them sitting on the porch watching the rain and the lighting; the thunder sending vibrations through their white painted, metal chairs that accented the houses’ trim.)
My birthday is in December. It never bothered me to have a December birthday. I loved the holiday season, the Christmas music, the silent snowfalls, and the icy blizzards. We would go sledding at the creek by Lake Nokomis. Our plastic sleds shooting down the hill, sometimes coming to a stop right before the edge of the creek and other times, creeping over the edge and then plunging three feet to the frozen water below.
On this particular birthday we had our Christmas concert at school. I went to a Catholic Elementary school so we had the pleasures of celebrating Christmas – the true meaning of Christmas; manger scenes, the three kings, Saint Nicholas and all. It was a wonderful time. That birthday my grandparents came over to our house first, maybe for dinner and cake, and then we went to the concert. For my present they gave me a pencil lamp. On the tip of the lead is where the bulb sits. When I first received the lamp it was bright red. Since then it has been painted to match my room. For a while it was light pink, now it is burgundy, but I intend to paint it a Tiffany blue to match my studio apartment. My studio isn’t painted yet either though.
As we drove off in the snow I remember looking back to my bedroom and seeing a warm light glowing from my desk. I felt proud. I loved my lamp. Such a practical thing for such a little kid. But I took it as a representation of my future as a writer. The other windows were lit by little electric cream coloured plastic candles with bright, orange light bulbs, my window had one two, but my shining lamp was luminous. And mine.
Writers write. Starting in 5th grade I knew I did not care for my English class. I still remember a “poem” I doodled when we were in class. “English is so boring, I feel like I’m snoring and if I want a treat I will stare at Catherine’s feet.” Since I attended Catholic school we wore uniforms and the only outlet for fashion or proclamation of difference was our footwear. And feet rhymed with treat and at that point I still believed that poems had to be a few short words mushed together in a sing-songy, rhyming manner. When we began our poetry unit I became serious. From that day forward until I graduated high school, I wrote at least a poem a day. Some of the poetry is so stupid and embarrassing that I have conflicting feelings about it. I am thankful that it is buried deep behind boxes, cat fur, and whatever other items might get shoved under my bed away from public eyes, but I am also glad that it is only under my bed and not in the trash, lost forever. I meticulously dated every poem. For some reason I have always been obsessed with recording things. Knowing exactly when something in my life occurred.
Progressing through the years I have released some of that need for “recording”, but I for some things I do still hold on tight. Like working out. I need to write down when I worked out and how long, etc. etc. I think it is so I can look back and figure out how to stay in shape or get back in shape if I lose it. Which I have, several times. That is miserable and oh-so-depressing when you stop working out and gain weight, become soft, and lazy. It is so incredibly hard to get back into shape. Especially when the results don’t show immediately; it is my goal to never be out of shape again. Writing it on the calendar enables me to visualize my work out routine and the little empty calendar spaces instill immense guilt and motivate me to return to my early morning regime at the YMCA. The recoding is obsessive compulsive, I know. But at least outward, it doesn’t appear too strange. There are worse things to need to do on obsessive compulsive basis.
In junior high and through high school I became seriously dedicated to classical ballet. That consumed my time, even more so than homework (although I never let the reading or schoolwork slide) and my mantra became “After I am done dancing, I will focus on writing.” Don’t get me wrong, I tried to write. I would start “young adult” stories that I thought would turn into bestselling novels. But the time I did not have to devote to these writings left me scatterbrained and unable to finish one complete story. As I got older my stories and poems leaned toward the romantic side. Then I started to worry. How in the world was I supposed to write about a kiss when I had never experienced a kiss? Or write about characters with boyfriends when I had never had a boyfriend. And so came college. My desire to experience things so that I could write about them took a front seat to writing. I still took creative writing classes and did my assignments, but I took to heart the old adage “write what you know” and I spent more time living than writing.
Upon college graduation, I returned to ballet. It was a safety net. It was an escape from the “real world” and my problems. As a graduate, having studied creative writing and journalism, I wanted a career in writing. Due to unforeseen circumstances that shall go unmentioned, I was unable to partake in on-campus writing opportunities and internships. At the University of North Dakota I took the two creative writing courses I could.
I wrote for “The Dakota Student”. Missing performing I became involved in the theatre department and performed in a handful of plays. At the end of my sophomore year, I planned to transfer to St. Cloud State University. For a few reasons. One, a boy, though that is a long and complicated story and shall, again, go untold; two, to attend a school that would allow me to earn a bachelor of arts in Creative Writing; and three, to get back into ballet again, the only form of fitness I thought I could do. I was asked to apply for the Editor of Arts & Entertainment position for “The Dakota Student” but my transfer papers were in place and I had used up all the creative writing class at UND. I could not stay.
At SCSU I wrote an opinion piece for the “University Chronicle”. It got a couple emails of positive feedback. That felt nice, but it was all I ever did on campus, aside from my class work.
2005, two years after my return to ballet, I quit. I wanted to write. The ever-present reason for why I do the things I do and I also wanted to spend time with my current boyfriend. Ballet was time consuming and when paired with a full time job there was little time left for relaxing. That, and the full time dancers were in much better shape and it was hard to be satisfied with my ballet technique when everyone else was training on a daily basis.
All these years I have been writing. But I want to write more. I want to write more frequently. I take classes at The Loft, but I want to make writing a part of my daily routine, like it used to be. I found at The Loft, like in college, I was thriving amongst the other writers. The feeling of being around creative people and people who have a passion for writing is like a runner’s high. I feel so amazing; creativity is seeping out of me and imagery is spilling on to my pages, filling them quickly. I told a friend once that I liked being surrounded by creative minds and the enjoy sound of their brains pouring out through ink onto paper or playing their laptop keyboards like a sonata. I have never been musically talented, but when I am typing away on my keyboard imagine I know what a pianist feels like. It is like speaking tongues, a divine intervention; suddenly, what I can’t do in my studio apartment, is flowing from me and I can’t stop it. I am out of control and very much in control at the same time. And usually, I feel so happy. Content. A big sigh and I can’t wait to do it again.
Life gets in the way. Work, teaching yoga, working out, spending time with friends, family, and dating has all taken precedence. But now I am ready to focus and to fit writing into my schedule. With the right motivation and accountability, I will get it done. Just like working out. I have been going to the YMCA most every morning before work for the last year and a half. The “regulars” notice when I am missing, check on me the next day, and poke fun at me when I go through a sleeping in phase. Aside from being healthy and fitting into my clothes, I go to the gym because the ladies will expect me to be there and they will worry if I am not.
Fortunately I found out I am not the only writer with this problem. (You know? The one where the whole life thing gets in the way?) This fall, my writing friends and I are going to gather at a predetermined destination and write. Perhaps do some writing exercises. Maybe do a little work shopping. Thank you, in advance, to my fellow writing pals. Those who would like to enhance their writing practice and those that need the right motivation, the right environment, the right table, and the right cup of coffee to write.
