On not writing

Permission to feel good about the thing you're working on

Cannonball!

A running start from the far end of the dock and a leap into the water. “Will you rate me 0 to 10?” they asked the adults. My ratings were based on form and splash radius. A cannonball without an impressive splash received something in the 6 range. Legs tucked and a spray of river water warranted something in the 9’s.

I sat with other parents in the Memorial Day sun, drinking beers, feeling like a 9.6 should really be considered a very good score, until the ten-year old said “I’m gonna get a 10 this time” because nothing short of perfect would be acceptable for these kids. Again, and again, they flung themselves into the water, blubbered back via doggy paddle, trying not to get the river in their mouths, and lunged back onto the deck for yet another attempt. 

If only I had this resilience when it comes to writing. I know it’s not a fair comparison, but this is the Nth time I’ve watched my kid – and others – in their boundless energy and enthusiasm for a task and wondered: why can’t I give even half of that oomph to my writing practice?  

Lately I’ve been off-assignment. My MFA program dictates a packet a month, with a piece of creative work and progress toward a third semester essay. I last sent a piece of creative work right before my mother got sick, a hospitalization that ended in her passing. This threw me off; I’ve been unable to write fiction in the voice of my wry, satirical narrator while grieving (nearly two months, for anyone counting). 

Lots of people – including the MFA’s leaders – have told me that I need to let go of my writing expectations, that of course I can’t get words on a page, let alone be vaguely funny, when such a life-changing event just took place. But I want to write as much as those kids wanted a 10 for their cannonball. I don’t need to finish the book, and I don’t need to write anything brilliant, but I do need to write. To run down the platform of an empty Google Doc and let loose words that make some sense 

So instead of sticking to my assignments, I’ve been writing what moves me: tiny essays about nostalgia or the writing salon that I hosted for the first time this past week or more noticing about how the music I so loved as a teenager was actually, in retrospect and at best, vaguely objectionable. Or perhaps my favorite: writing about not writing (eg, this essay). 

Back on the dock, hoping the sunscreen on my kid’s body hadn’t washed off because nothing is worse than a scorching burn, the other dad caved: gave his son a 10 just so he’d take a break from the endless trying. It is, perhaps, a little dishonest but well-intentioned; a phrase that describes parenting, in a nutshell. 

In that spirit, I’m giving you a 10 and the permission to feel good about the thing that you’ve been working at, even half-heartedly. Whatever it is: 10.