She had always been passionate about being a writer. Always.
Early in her life her father got pleasure from writing, poised at his
When she was about eleven, she wrote to an established author, whose
address had been found in some magazine, to find out what she had to do to
become a writer. Back came an itemized
list
She read and she read and she read.
Over the next few decades, she was strongly influenced by many
books. In fact, there was nothing in the
whole world she enjoyed doing more than reading. And she wondered, would she ever become a
writer?
Early on in adulthood, her life took a couple of turns that she had
never expected and it took her about five years to get back on her feet. A diminished person without the confidence
she once possessed. Over the years her
confidence returned, yet she was still afraid to climb out onto the writer’s
limb. It was getting to be now or never.
And then an opportunity presented itself. She and her husband of fourteen years were
celebrating their anniversary in a happy way, as they were very much in
love. Somehow the conversation took a
twist. He started to propose that they
divide their bungalow into twp houses, upstairs/downstairs, each of them take
one floor for an eight-day stretch. She
jumped at the idea. She thought that if
her head and time were free of wifely concerns she would not have an excuse for
not writing. She did not blame him for standing in her way. In fact, he was
most encouraging. The truth was, she
knew that so far she had been lazy, had procrastinated and had taken the easy
way out. What next?
Preparation for the week apart took on a ritual life of its own. As she
was moving upstairs, she had to move clothes, personal and leisure items. For him she gathered dishes, some food and
basic utensils. There was discussion
over use of the telephone and of course, sharing the dog. Mail would be deposited on the mid stair
landing. Instrumental readiness.
Sunday was Day One and she sat at her computer ready to create the
novel of the millennium. She worked for
two or three hours and almost reached the midpoint of a short story. Satisfied
that she had all the time in the world – a week – to finished that creation,
she took a break and resumed her reading.
Sunday turned into Monday and it was time for work. She could not move. She was lost without her established identity
and the warm enveloping security of her place in their marriage. For the next two days she was a nonentity,
hiding out under the covers, eyes wide shut.
Writing – or even – reading, held no draw for her. It frightened her. Even now it frightens her. What does this
mean?
Could it mean that she is so engulfed by her love relationship that she
fails when she reaches out on her own and tries to do something different? Does it show unbelievable dependency? Or fear?
Does it suggest that she needs to be under some duress in order to be
able to create in the first place? Maybe
that is all hogwash and at the time her brain chemistry changed and depression
got the upper hand. Who can tell?
Maybe she was happy the ways things were and unwittingly sabotaged any
chance of change.
The rest of the week passed blessedly
quickly while she attended work and waited for the rendezvous with her loved
one, at Sunday dinner. She did not return to her experiment with writing that
week. In fact, it was not until five months
later that she lifted a pen. Could it be a threat?
They sat at one of their favorite restaurants for dinner and caught up
on the week past. One thing was certain;
they had missed each other very much. He
was happy and proud that he had had the chance to complete a needed remodeling
project, while free from her distractions.
They were most happy that they did not have to sleep alone anymore.
So, did you write anything? Her
lover gently inquired. I started
something but it has a long way to go. I
think I’m afraid of failure, she replied.
Well, the key is to write for you and see what happens, he noted
sipping a fine white wine.
Could she ask for more understanding?