I have always prided myself on the fact that, when in a relationship of any kind, I have never sacrificed a friend for a man. I have never cancelled a night out with the girls in favor of a last-minute date. I have never responded to text messages during dinner and interrupted the smooth flow of a conversation. Nor have I ever disappeared for weeks or months at a time to lavish all my time and attention on a man – I am not that kind of girl.
Or so I thought…
For several months now, instead of writing this blog, I spent those precious hours in a daily and dedicated correspondence to a long-distance (and distant) lover. A lover who, I might add, also has some literary aspirations. Aspiration is a good word, because I could literally feel his aspirations sucking the creativity and life out of my own writing and observations. As I channeled my time and creative energy over to him I had less to spend on myself. In addition, as his “editor,” I spent a great deal of time propping up his ego. This is essential in a vocation that is riddled with insecurity and angst. Just ask my editor.
So, in a sense, I abandoned both my readers and my muse for him. And having done so, I was afraid I had lost both. I was afraid that my readers, tired of waiting around for a new post, had gone off to read other writers’ blogs and that my muse had gone to whisper words into other writers’ ears.
But after a week of steadily blogging and receiving a warm “welcome back,” I have learned that this is not so. And, as I sit in my hotel room in Paris, I am reading all of your wonderful comments and feeling my muse pacing the floor, pausing every few minutes in search of a perfect word to place on the page.
After such a long absence I was also afraid I had lost my rhythm, my words, and that panicky pleasure I get when I write regularly. The same doubts plague the actor, musician, or athlete who, after a long absence, returns to the public stage and asks herself, Can I do it again? Will I be as good? What if I choke?
Writing is, like most things, a profession you have to practice – a lot – if you want to be good at it. The less I practiced, the farther away I got from writing this blog and the closer I came to shutting it down.
That was, until I had a conversation with my editor, Melva McLean, who reminded me that I was still writing every day, just a different kind of writing but writing none the less. It was to an audience of one – my lover. At the same time I was writing to him I was able to see the tentative first steps it takes for someone else to tell a story.
I could see myself in him and how I too started with the easy stuff. It was the expository, the superficial, the description and the reportage of daily life. Not bad if you wanted to be a working journalist but dull as dirt if you want to tell a story.
I remember when I started writing Any Color but Beige how I rested on the surface of my experience and feelings. I was afraid to go any deeper to plumb the emotional depths that gave my story its joy and sadness – its life. The thought of sharing that part of me with strangers caused my heart to race. I suppose that’s why it took two years.
Over dinner one night Melva said something about great writing that haunts me. She said, “The best stories break your heart.” And she’s right.
My book was born out of heartbreak. The story broke my heart, and writing it as truthfully as possible, with all of the messy wonderful emotions that went with it, helped to heal that heart.
I tried to explain this concept to my lover. I gave him some examples of great writers who bared their souls and risked opening themselves up to ridicule and judgment in the name of great writing, who paid a price but created great works in the process. But he prefers to go through life skimming the surface.
He certainly skimmed the surface of my life. Our relationship had all of the depth of a puddle. The up side to this is that although he may have nicked my heart he certainly didn’t break it. So I must be getting better at this relationship thing. On the other hand ours was not the kind that breaks your heart. It was more like reportage. And I will leave him to write that, since he’s so good at it.
It’s good to have you back!
Sometimes my life seems dull compared to yours, but then I realize, it’s the locations (Paris, Germany, etc) that make it seem exotic. But,it’s the same stuff happening in good-old Willoughby, Ohio.
Hey Kathy,
You’re absolutely right, experiences and emotions are universal. The rest is just geography! I still love the good Ole Midwest…You can take the girl out of Ohio but you can’t take Ohio out of the girl. And for that I’m grateful. Say to everyone at the book club!
I suppose that relationships sometimes seem like oceans in the beggining, only to reveal thenselves puddles later…yep
Hey Zen,
One good thing is that you can’t drown in a puddle. Cafe
🙂
You are a very brave writer, and I suspect this is what keeps us readers coming back – we are watching and cheering you from the sidelines. True art is authenticity in action…be your gorgeous, authentic self, Cat!
Thanks Lorrie, not feeling all that brave today so your comment couldn’t have come at a better time. 🙂 I’ve taken your “true art is authenticity in action” definition and wrote it on the first page of my pocket inspiration note book I always take with me.
Catherine, you are the BEST kind of girl!
Great photo… Very Hollywood star!
Angela
Thanks Angela – you should know because you always bring out the best in me, my friend. Looking forward to seeing you in October.
[…] trip has been one of many firsts. First, I found out that I was that kind of girl. And I’ve said “I told you so: not once but twice. And now, I have to confess that, on a […]