It's so easy to get caught up in the day-to-day events that come along with having a family, a day job, and other commitments that it's all too easy to put "writing" on the back burner.
"I'll get to it when I have more time..." or "I'll work on it this weekend...next week...next month...next summer"--but it's always "later."
It's not so much a matter of procrastination or avoidance (although my husband might argue otherwise); it's more due to how I prioritize my time. How, though, do I tell my students that I'll grade their papers "later"? How do I tell my husband or friends that I'll spend time with them "later"? I have a house full of boxes waiting to be unpacked, eight classes of bright and eager students waiting to be taught, a gorgeous and loving husband waiting to spend time with me...and a nasty cold that's been stalking me for days. Those types of things don't wait for later.
It occurred to me today, though, that if I needed to go to the doctor every day at noon for an hour in order to get a treatment that would keep me alive, I would make the time to go. Of course, students, supervisors, and husbands all might be a bit more understanding of being shuffled to the side for a little while under those circumstances, but it isn't really all that different.
Life is about quality: finding those things, people, and pastimes that make you feel happy, loved, and valued, and committing yourself to ideas and ideals that make you feel like you're engaged in an ethical and meaningful existence. So isn't my mental well-being as crucial as my physical well-being? If taking time to write everyday makes my life more meaningful and satisfying, if it helps me to feel like I'm moving forward and doing something that matters very much to me, is it really so much different from that hypothetical daily doctor's appointment?
Life is too short to push those things that we do for ourselves--those things that we do to make ourselves happy, that make our lives more meaningful--until later. After all, what if later never comes? If I only had one day to live, would I look back over my life and wish I had graded more papers? Washed more dishes? Unpacked more boxes? Not likely. I may, though, look back and regret those dreams I left unpursued, those goals I constantly pushed aside, always, invariably, perpetually waiting for later.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Why write?
Today, as I stood before a sea of expectant faces, I pondered the question that had been asked. It isn’t the first time I’ve been asked this particular question, and with the typical aplomb of an experienced writing teacher, I’ve always rattled off the same pat answer.
But today, I paused.
Perhaps it’s the recent upheaval in my life that has made me more reflective, or perhaps it’s because turning 39 last month has forced me to slow down and really examine what I’m doing with my life and where I’m headed.
"Why write, anyway?"
We write, of course, to inform, to persuade, to instruct, to argue, to share our thoughts, ideas, and beliefs with others in a meaningful context. But beyond the everyday need to communicate, what compels us to write? Why do we blog? Why do we write fiction, poetry, and song lyrics? Why do we feel compelled to share what we write?
Is writing a passion? Is it a skill? A talent? Is it something everyone can enjoy? That everyone can learn? Is it like golf, where everyone can try their hand at it, but only a few can aspire to be the next Tiger Woods (or Nora Roberts, or Steven King, etc.)? Does it matter if we're any good at it? Can we teach what it is to write?
For me, writing is an expression of the self, a reaching out to others in an attempt to share, for a moment, a universal human experience—like love, or passion, or hate, or friendship, or grief—to forge a connection that may be broken in an instant or may be cherished for a lifetime. Human beings are social creatures, and those connections—however fleeting they may be—help us to make meaning out of the chaos that we call life.
As I stood before a sea of expectant faces—some of them beginning to show signs of strain and impatience—I pondered all of this, before suddenly, I realized the only real answer is yet another question: "Why do YOU write?"
But today, I paused.
Perhaps it’s the recent upheaval in my life that has made me more reflective, or perhaps it’s because turning 39 last month has forced me to slow down and really examine what I’m doing with my life and where I’m headed.
"Why write, anyway?"
We write, of course, to inform, to persuade, to instruct, to argue, to share our thoughts, ideas, and beliefs with others in a meaningful context. But beyond the everyday need to communicate, what compels us to write? Why do we blog? Why do we write fiction, poetry, and song lyrics? Why do we feel compelled to share what we write?
Is writing a passion? Is it a skill? A talent? Is it something everyone can enjoy? That everyone can learn? Is it like golf, where everyone can try their hand at it, but only a few can aspire to be the next Tiger Woods (or Nora Roberts, or Steven King, etc.)? Does it matter if we're any good at it? Can we teach what it is to write?
For me, writing is an expression of the self, a reaching out to others in an attempt to share, for a moment, a universal human experience—like love, or passion, or hate, or friendship, or grief—to forge a connection that may be broken in an instant or may be cherished for a lifetime. Human beings are social creatures, and those connections—however fleeting they may be—help us to make meaning out of the chaos that we call life.
As I stood before a sea of expectant faces—some of them beginning to show signs of strain and impatience—I pondered all of this, before suddenly, I realized the only real answer is yet another question: "Why do YOU write?"
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