Writing is comforting like a soft pillow with just the right concaves, like an old stuffed animal that you carried through childhood, like a Hallmark card from a dear friend. Writing is thought provoking like a sound bite from the evening news, like a campaign slogan, like a comment from a colleague. Writing is obsessive, like too many potato chips, like my need to have my bed look just right when I make it, like my constant search for another ancestor to help me define more clearly who I am.
Writing is a disease.
Recently I’ve been writing morning, noon and night. While this is probably due to my participation in the National Writing Project Summer Institute, I am tentatively hoping the frequent writing continues long after the institute. I say tentatively because I am beginning to experience some of the symptoms of mad writer’s disease. Let me share those symptoms with you, in case you think you may be suffering from the same malady.
First, you think about writing all the time. This symptom manifests itself in many ways. You are driving down the highway with a definite destination in mind. Suddenly you get an idea for a story in your head and before you know it you are ten miles past your exit and hoping you can think of a great excuse for being late. A second manifestation of this symptom is ignoring your spouse. You can hear a faint din similar to the low hum of a neighbor’s lawn mower; nothing that’s particularly bothersome but certainly nothing you have to pay close attention to either. That is until you pre-writing thoughts are shattered by your husband firing your name in rapid succession like gunfire at the shooting range. “Gayle, Gayle, Gayle—are you listening to me?”
Let’s not forget the failure to separate the darks from the whites because you are pondering how to apply the rule of three to your writing. The first time your husband has to wear pink briefs you are sure to be reminded of you illness. I’ve already gotten out of my bed in the middle of the night, and out of the shower, soapy and dripping, to write something down. I spent a large part of a recent interview formulating, in my head, a persuasive piece based on a single phrase uttered by the interviewer.
The second symptom is the shameless use of your friends and family as the subjects for pieces of writing. My son has already informed me that if I put his slut story in print he’ll find a way to get even. I don’t know why it bothers him so much. I am sure every seven year old boy has confused those rolly, polly little bugs for sluts. I hope the mere mention of it here doesn’t drive him to revenge. My grandson has been the subject of many of my past stories—but thank goodness, he’s too young to protest. For her fortieth birthday last October I presented my good friend, Amy, with what I thought was the perfect gift—a tribute piece to our friendship. Thankfully, she agreed, cried all over her present, and then gave me a huge hug. Today, it was thoughts of a Konni story—she’s a librarian friend who just accepted a new position. Formulating the writing in my head took me right past my exit.
Carrying your writing notebook everywhere is the third symptom. You whip it out like a tourist brandishes his camera—snapping shots at moments, unexpected and sacred, catching everyone off guard. The checker at the grocery store asked me the other day why I was taking notes. Perhaps she was insecure in her job. More than a few people turned heads when I whipped out my phone and snapped photos of the turtles in the concrete pond at North Park mall. The photos were immediately followed by the appearance of my notebook so I could free write about turtles.
Lots of lovely little turtles, turtles in water, turtles out of water, turtles in a pile, turtles under the sun lamp—sun lamp?—note to self, research why turtles need sunlamps—are they bronzing their shells? There sure are a lot of turtles in that very small pond. Maybe I should write an anonymous letter to the SPCA.
All this free writing is reminding me of a college friend who always had a smile on her face, a kind word for everyone, and a song in her heart. Unfortunately the song that most frequently came to her lips was Climb Every Mountain from the Sound of Music. She’d sing it in the student union. She’d sing it on the way to class. She’d sing it at frat parties. It didn’t take long before all the members of my boyfriend’s fraternity referred to her as Climb Every. Will “free writer” replace “Shorty” as my nickname—not freedom writer, grant writer or published writer—just free writer?
That brings me to my last symptom—revision aversion. You’ve done some pre-writing activities, come up with a great topic, taken out your notebook and free wrote until your wrist was numb. You took the best lines and put them into a piece you think is great—but is it? You revised, used brush strokes, applied the rule of three, and sprinkled it with lively action verbs. Just when you think you have a final copy, your kindly response group has suggested you might want to move a few things around, add some words, take some away, and the whole process begins again.
I have the disease—and I don’t want to get well.
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