In With the New

So before I could start posting again, I needed to re-envision this blog.  I made changes to the design and layout.  The Barefoot Books presence that originally prompted my set up here is now gone entirely.  (Many thanks to the friends who supported this venture—I lacked the sales drive and the ability to penetrate sales tax instructions in order to succeed in business.)  While I’m not entirely sure where I’m headed focus-wise, I will continue to post reviews of books that inspire me.  The rest will be process and practice.

One thing that tends to hold me back from writing is the awareness that my words are a snapshot of a momentary, ephemeral framework of thought.  The perspective documented in language is subject to myriad limitations, and in time I may no longer believe that which I write.  My “10 best Parenting Books” would look different today.  And I no longer agree at all with what I wrote about the “Writer/writer” dichotomy in my literacy narrative (October 2008), my argument against an (essentialist) identification with the title of “Writer.”  Changes in my self-understanding have led me to suspect that I may indeed have an intrinsic need to write, that perhaps I cannot be content in my life or fully be myself (whatever that means) without writing. 

Back when I was keeping up with this blog (and writing for class) a friend who hadn’t seen me in a while noted that I looked good—remarkably so, and when I suggested that I might have lost a few pounds from a recent flu bug, she insisted, “No, no, not that!  Something else.”  “I’m writing again,” I shrugged and she replied, “That must be it.” Anyone who knows me fairly well might be inclined to remark that I’m an analytical sort who tends to think perhaps too much about pretty much everything.  My Gemini talkativeness is symptomatic of a deeper need to communicate these rampant thoughts to others.  Oh yeah, need.

I can relate what I mean in an analogy with my favorite dog breed—the Border Collie.  Folks are often attracted to animals that mirror themselves in some way, right?  Years ago I looked up information about these dogs and found pages and pages of personal anecdotes detailing the destructive behavior of which they are capable.  Border Collies are highly intelligent and energetic dogs who need to work.  Idle minds (and bodies) can indeed be the “devil’s playground,” resulting in de-upholstered couches and car seats and countless variations of costly mischief.  I suspect that my mind, when lacking the right outlet, wreaks havoc with my life in a similar fashion.  Perhaps if I regularly channel this restless mental discharge into an active writing life, it’s more likely that I’ll leave the rest of my life alone—less compulsive problem finding/analyzing/solving in relationships, at work, at home etc.  Recently I had an epiphany that not only will Charlie’s various “phases” pass without troubleshooting, research or consciously directed responses on my part, that energy might be better off reserved for other things.  No wonder I’m so tired!

But writing practice offers more than a way to burn off excess mental energy.  As I mentioned in my previous post, I started playing guitar again.  I’m a perpetual beginner, due to long periods of dormancy and no inclination to actually perform.  This winter I realized how the limitation of my technical skills inhibits my ability to give voice to what’s inside me.  While I enjoy the guitar, I do not feel a connection with the instrument the way I did with the oboe back in my school days; even apart from lacking technique, it just doesn’t feel like I can convey myself the way I long to.  I’ve listened closely to the layers of the music I like and I think the fiddle might be a better vehicle to release my heart in music.  Of course, apart from not being able to afford a violin, it would take years to become proficient enough to adequately express myself that way.  So what if instead I could learn to “sing” through writing?  Yeah, I would need practice to tune my voice, to get the rhythmic flow of the language to match the energy I wish to express, but I possess both the instrument and the fundamentals already (no running through boring scales here).  Writing might function well as my conduit.  It doesn't need to be perfect, and if & when I change my mind about what I've written then I can write about that next.  Through the practice itself I may again find that centeredness, that vitality, that glowing aura, that wholeness.