Bloody Well Write

I recently stopped by my parents’ house to, among other things, pick up some of my old toys and books so that they could reclaim part of their basement and so that my kids could benefit from new stimulation. An added bonus is that I can get a kick out of seeing them play with my childhood stuff and read the stories that I used to enjoy to my own kiddos.

Concerning the books, I flipped through each one, thrilled that I remembered it. Then I packed up all my old goodies and went home, distributing books according to which ones I thought each child would enjoy. Never mind that the task wasn’t all that hard since I only have two girls; it’s the concept that counts, right?

But then something disturbing occurred. I started reading these stories to my girls. And, while I absolutely remember the artwork — the lazy balloons floating around while the two kids planned a party for their mom in “The Birthday Party” or the puddle-jumper, snoozing bear and struggling seed in “Splish Splash” or the great-great-grandfather wearing the alligator’s skin in “Old Hasdrubal” — I didn’t remember the stories much at all.

So the holiday went by and I woke up one morning, disturbed from a dream about these books. It seemed clear as a bell: Why should I bother writing anything at all? Because when it comes down to it, I don’t remember the words; the pictures are the triggers, the stuff that memories are made of.

Well, that’s a fairly disconcerting feeling for a writer to have, let me tell you. Especially for a writer who can’t draw a picture of anything, save a happy face — and even those don’t always turn out so hot.

So how do I reconcile my realization with my reality?

Well, folks, if you haven’t figured it out by now (and I’d bet that you have), we humans are excellent justifiers. One of our most effective coping mechanisms is justification. So by my reasoning, I should keep on writing for a few reasons:

• I can. This seems pretty important, as it translates across many areas of life. I do this because I am able to, while others don’t necessarily have the opportunity (e.g., physical, emotional, monetary and/or logical disabilities).
• I probably can’t do the other thing, or at least do it well. I can’t become a painter or sculptor (one who could make a decent living at it).
• Someone has to do it. So I can’t paint a face or do an über-modern dance very well; I can write. I’ve been told as much, and I have the training for it and apparently an audience that thinks my writing is somewhat interesting. And it’s not costing me anything except time, so what’s the holdup?
• There are stories to be told, ideas to pass around. I haven’t ventured into fiction writing much, but I’m OK at passing on valid information (thank the gods for the AP Stylebook). Lifelong learning is a good thing for sure, and as I write entries for this blog to help others understand often-dry subject matter, I learn a lot, either about myself or most certainly the topic at hand.
• I have to bring in some cashola. Money talks — yes it does. It ain’t everything, but it’s something.
• I should contribute. Something, somehow. You, me, us — we can’t (or shouldn’t) go through life just gliding along. Trying to further ourselves, our fellow human beings, animal friends and earth should somehow come into play. Not that you should read my blog to your cat or stop your recycler to chat about verb agreement, but you get my drift. Think globally, act locally. You do your part, and I’ll do mine. Whatever it is that you can do, do it well. I can’t tell a joke to save a drowning pup, but I can write, so I write.

So. I still wish that I could be successful with a paintbrush, but I’m OK with my version of art. Writing well can be very technical, but it can also be an art — as is whatever you do well. Keep that in mind.

Happy 2010 to you and yours.

Happy trails!

SAK