First

I have been harried as of late. No time for blogging, I guess, or no energy. The writing has been coming on more, though still is some starts and fits because of teaching and other things that I can't identify. I think I figured it out the other day: I've been making it too hard.

When I decided upon a collection of essays as my thesis, I went wild with enthusiasm. I created a word document titled "My MFA Thesis." I had grand plans. I started a list of all the essays I would write. It got up to twenty-three, many of them with five or six numbered ideas below them. Some were simple words: ghosts, restaurants, marriage, meteorology, tennis. Others were concepts or ideas: obsession as a coping mechanism, working the press, becoming Maria. Under "ghosts," I listed what I could write about: "Cuddles, Lois" (my ghosts), the ghosts of ourselves (rather vague and lofty), Council Grove's hermit cave that would never give me a clear picture, and a final note: "wind?" I was making the connections I thought I could make before even writing the thing. I was planning it out. I was going to write all of these essays because I had had all of these ideas. They needed to be good, complicated, advanced.

Turns out, it paralyzed me. I took the entire writing out of the writing. All the ideas stood there, waiting to be written, but there was too much to consider. Where to start? I have the ideas, but I don't know how to write them. As I got started, finally, in August, after the summer of starts and unfinished pages, I put together something that I thought all came together. With so much to include, so many ideas, I lost the "heart" of the essay, as Dr. Atkins pointed out. I was writing down the information, the connections, but I wasn't really writing to write. There was no surprise. I was not "essaying." No, the piece already had a goal that I was writing to, and that took all of the journey out of the process. It happened in earnest on the next two pieces that I put together. I didn't like them, knew they weren't mine or finished in any way, but I had them.

With my recent realization of the root of the problem, I'm getting back to basics. I'm trying to get back to just writing. How about that. This one that I'm working on (on meteorology of sorts) is just going. I'm not pushing it but letting it take its course. And you know what? I keep thinking of things I can connect it to, but I'm not writing them down in outline form as a finish line. It will happen how it happens.

This is most evident in an essay that I typed out by Scott Russell Sanders last night and this morning, "Feasting on Mountains." This practice of typing out an essay that I love is inspired by Jedsen's recent adoption of the practice. It's something that I taught my 102 students last year and knew would be good practice for me but never took it on. Now I think I'm addicted. I started yesterday and have already copied three.

What "Feasting on Mountains" does is describes Sanders' ascent to the top of Mount June, his walk. He stops along the way to ponder what he finds, and that's where the meaning comes in. It's not pushed toward one goal, but it all adds up to a larger meaning as it goes, not culminating in one final summation of meaning either. He finds it as he goes in little aha moments rather than one larger goal. It taught me, especially by writing it out and having to notice what was being typed by my fingers and why.

Next, I chose a piece by Ryan Van Meter from the 2009 Best American Essays titled "First." Read it here. It's short, but I can't think of another more timely and perfectly presented narrative about one evening in a child's life. It works on you in bits into an ultimate mass of powerful emotion. Love. What is it? Who is it for? How can you deny it to someone? You can't. If you doubt anyone and how they love and if they should love, read this. Tell me you would deny him.

And you should listen to what I'm listening to. Nothing hits me like essays and songs. Reading and listening reminds me why I want to write. I just read "My Mother's Theories of Child Rearing" by Kathryn Starbuck, and it hurt. Her hurt made me hurt and made me realize a little bit of something about my relationship with my mother.

And with Snickers here on the desk next to my hands, eager to walk across the laptop, I will write today. As I have been. As I want to. As I will do. I will revise, too. Those broken, forced essays of late will be cracked open with revision, new eyes. I can see where the heart is. I can know why it came out and why it was important and what it can say. Revision is best. That is where the words come into meaning. But it needs to be a balance of journey and reflection. Here I go.