... Tormented Writer

January 2009

As a person with an English degree and an opinion about most everything, you’d think I’d have jumped on the blogging bandwagon e-years ago.   But I didn’t, in part because I don’t get blogging.  I mean, I get the concept, but I still can’t figure out why random people would want to read random things written by other random people.  In the end it doesn’t matter if I get it, as blogging is here to stay.  And if you’re reading this, well, I appreciate it, but I still don’t quite understand why, unless of course you’re a friend, my mom or dad or my husband, and you have to.  But to be honest, blogging isn’t really the issue.  The real issue is writing in general.  

The reason I never blogged, wrote an article, kept a journal, tried my hand at freelance writing or anything like this is that it’s incredibly painful for me to write.  No, I don’t have arthritis or carpel tunnel syndrome or anything like that.  I have chronic creatus perfectionitis: the ongoing obsession to write – to create -- something perfect.

It started in college.   While I don’t consider myself old, I will date myself when I say that laptops were not standard issue and that word processing machines were dorm room luxuries.  My suitemate had one of these luxuries, and I had, well, a typewriter.  But long before I even got to the typewriter, I would handwrite my papers.  In pencil.  On paper.   Seems reasonable for the pre-technology age, right?  

The problem was that I would write a few words, maybe a paragraph if I was lucky and then I’d get stuck.  My brain would freeze.  I’d have no idea what should come next.  I’d sit there, looking at my paper, looking around the room, looking out the window.   I’d nibble on my finger nails, I’d check for cuticles that needed to be removed, I’d chew on the inside of my cheek.  Eventually, I’d have a brain thaw and would write another sentence or two.  Inevitably, there’d be something wrong with what I’d written – a misspelling, poor grammar or it was just not what I was “supposed” to say.  I’d erase the bad stuff and write over it with supposedly better stuff.   But there, lurking beneath my fresh, “new and improved” prose was the garbage.  I could see the eraser marks on my paper.  As a Type A person, this really annoyed me and only added to my writer’s block.  So, I’d get out a new piece of paper, clean and unscarred, and re-write the entire page up to the point of where I’d gotten stuck.  For some bizarre reason, starting over gave me the running start I needed to go a little further.  

It wasn’t uncommon for me to rewrite a page 5 or 6 times in this way before I reached the bottom of the page.  The good news is that once a page was done, it was done.  There were no stray marks, I’d said what I’d intended to say (at least up to that point), and I was comfortable that I was on the right track.  The first page was usually the hardest, but this re-write ritual happened page after page after page.  By the end of a 10-page paper, I’d have nearly a ream of paper on the floor or in the trash can, nubs for nails, a raging headache, bleary eyes, a sore back and neck.  Thankfully, I’d also have a sense of total satisfaction that I’d created my version of the “perfect paper.”   The birth of my paper was complete, and there, in front of me was the fruit of my labor, my beautiful creation, a little piece of “me” in black and white.  The words were finally out of me, and it was both exhausting and exhilarating.

Eventually I learned to draft on a keyboard, so the physical aspect of writing became much less arduous and much more “green.”  And as I got more comfortable with electronic creation, I’d hoped my perfectionist tendencies would subside.  But they didn’t.   And they haven’t.  Not even a little bit.  Writing is just hard for me.  While I don’t write term papers anymore, I do create presentations, proposals, recommendations and the like.  And it’s all hard.  I labor over my words.  I labor over the structure.  I labor over the punctuation and the parallelism.  But mostly I labor over whether I’ve said anything important, whether I’ve expressed my point of view accurately and clearly, and whether I’ve written something that effectively serves its purpose.

I’ve read a lot of crap in my days -- in school, at work, online.  I’ve endured run-on sentences, punctuation-less paragraphs, and grammatical atrocities (“irregardless” is one of my favorites).  I’ve slaved through collections of words that, together, made no sense.  I’ve questioned my own intelligence in trying to interpret co-workers’ attempts at “sounding smart” by using big words or by writing things in a way that they’d never actually say out loud.  Part of me is petrified that I’m going to contribute to this corpus of poorly written, meaningless dreck.  Worse, sheepishly I know that I already have – and probably on more occasions than I choose to admit. 

The other part of me is petrified to invest that much energy, that much angst, that much fear of failure into writing – every piece, all the time.  While I was in college, I joked about “giving birth” to my papers, not having a clue about actual childbirth.  Years later, with the arrival of Bailey, Jacob and Cole, I was introduced to all the real aches, pains, and flesh-ripping joys of labor.   And yes, for me, on many levels bringing a piece of writing into the world is like bringing a human child into this world.  But here’s the big difference: no legitimate anesthesiologist would give you a blessed epidural each time you sat down at your computer to crank out one of your “word babies.”  

But here I sit, at the beginning of a new year, with a blank Word document, no epidural in sight, writing about writing.  No, I’m not turning over a new leaf or trying to remedy my “creatus perfectionitis.”  I’m actually sitting here because my friend Diane is “making” me.  Diane’s birthday is one year and 10 days after mine.  We’re Geminis.  She’s the one person I can count on to hear from in June, triggering a series of emails, cards and phone calls to celebrate our big days.  We’ve known each other for nearly 20 years, have worked together, have attended each others’ weddings, have celebrated the arrival of all 7 of our collective children, and have grappled with Life as it has presented us with its challenges.  We’re certainly not best friends.  But we are dear, permanent, life-long friends.

Diane began her writing quest a couple years ago and has built herself a very nice little body of work.  She started a writing group to get feedback and share ideas.  She is a contributing writer to a couple of blogs.  And she’s drafted an outline of her first book.   All this while doing some part-time business consulting, raising four young children and keeping her wonderful, but slightly crazy husband in line. 

She’s never suggested I start writing, and thankfully has never asked why I haven’t tried my hand at it.  But I’ve watched her.  I’ve logged onto the blog-sites and read her pieces.  It’s been amazing to see her “in print,” and amazing to see how much she’s written.  I think I’m jealous of her creations, and wonder how I could ever find the strength and courage to give birth to all those pieces of writing, knowing the physical and emotional investments I would have to make to do even a fraction of what she’s done. 

But still, Diane is making me write.  As I sit here today, my dear, permanent, life-long friend is undergoing a double mastectomy with reconstruction as the starting point of her battle with breast cancer.  

Diane is tough as nails, has a great outlook, is blessed with friends and family, and is supported in her spiritual beliefs.   She will absolutely beat this thing.  From everything I’ve heard, however, beating cancer is like raising a child: it takes a village.  But Diane, well, she’s one of those people who never asks for help, who doesn’t want to impose, who shoulders her own burdens.   Fortunately, I think there are enough “villagers” to get her and her family pretty far down the road.   But what about us “non-villagers?”

Diane and I live in different cities.  We’re friends, but our kids really aren’t, so offering to keep them or entertain them for a while would be odd for everyone.   Cooking for them is an option, but I suspect neighbors, church friends and the like will take care of their stomachs as Diane recuperates.  While I know Diane loves flowers, I have a hard time sending things that will eventually die to someone who’s fighting to live.  Plants are lovely, but really, she’s already got four kids to take care of.  Massage? No.  Manicure / pedicure?  Maybe.  What does a dear, permanent, life-long friend do for another dear, permanent, life-long friend when they don’t live close enough to help with daily chores?

Surely there are a million answers to that question, and maybe I’m just not being creative enough.  But for me with Diane, it’s simple: I’m writing.  Writing is one of her great passions.  I know how much she’s personally invested in it.  I know how happy it makes her.  So for her, I’m willing to suck it up and make the investment, regardless of how hard it is for me.  She’ll crack up at my maiden voyage into her world, and she’ll likely have some pretty direct criticism of my work, but that’s all good.  I will have entertained her for a while and kept her mind occupied on something other than cancer, kids or laundry.  

For my part, writing is still hard, and this piece has been no exception.  My head hurts, my eyes are bleary, my back is sore and my neck aches.   But there’s no paper on the floor, and I still have all my fingernails.  Maybe there’s hope for me after all.  Even if this winds up being my first and last attempt at writing, I feel pretty satisfied.  If my friend can bravely look breast cancer in the face, the least I can do – in her honor – is invest the energy to write, regardless of the fear, regardless of the pain, regardless of the potential outcome.  For Diane, this is my labor of love.

(Originally penned January 9, 2009.   As of March 20, 2019, Diane remains cancer free, healthy, periodically writing herself, and serving those battling this terrible disease by her incredible strength and her brilliant invention called Pink Pockets (https://www.pink-pockets.com).