(An essay about learning to swim… and learning to write.)
My decision to pursue my “craft†was not always obvious to those close to me, and when I am sitting before a monitor beaming back at me the computer equivalent of scribbles, I can see and hear my friends as clearly as if I were holding to my ear a shell that echoed their words.
“So exactly, what crafts do you do?†asked one friend.
“Craft. Writing,†I responded.
“Writing?†she asked. Her eyebrows leapt up and knit together; her mouth pursed. “You do that?â€
“Never mind,†I replied, feeling cross and small. Screw you, I thought. Screw you.
I do everything I can think of to screw them, to send the skeptics and their leaping eyebrows far, far down into the watery drink. I tape a list of “the aspects of craft†to my computer monitor, I read and re-read essays about structuring nonfiction works, I write down every comment shared in my writing group and rewrite my notes when I get home. I study In Cold Blood so many times I memorize the hanging scene. When others in the group write better than I do, I let jealousy the color of seaweed wind through my brain, and when I read an awkward sentence or paragraph I know I could have swum circles around, I let myself feel a small hard knot of pleasure, no bigger than a cockle shell, something I can rub my fingers over when I need succor.
Posted on this day, other years:
- Bristlecone: A Practical Plan for Practical Dogfooders - 2009
- Just Published: "David, Just as he was," White Crane, Summer 2007 - 2007
- Help Tony Barnes of New Orleans PL Contact Library Staff - 2005
