Hi, everyone!
So, this is blogging. Having scribbled away by my lonesome for many years, I must now come to terms with a frightening thought: "But somebody might read it." I guess them's the breaks, so here goes.
When I was in seventh grade, our English teacher assigned us to write poems about what we wanted to be when we grew up. We then had to read them aloud to the class. I know mine was about being a writer, but thankfully - for your sakes as well as mine - I don't remember it (one of the many reasons I believe in a merciful Providence). What I do remember is the comment period afterward. Someone objected that I hadn't said anything about why I wanted to write. And I was truly and honestly stumped.
I've thought about that question a lot in the years since, but I can do no better at an answer than my thirteen-year-old self could. Oh, I can tell you a lot about why I think art is important. I can tell you what fun writing can be when it's going right. I can list a lot of people who have influenced me. But none of that answers the question, not really. Because the question is, given that all that's true, Why me? Or more properly, perhaps: Who do I think I am and why do I think I have something to say?
Truth is, sometimes I wish I didn't. I mean, I've agonized over this first blog post because I really don't want to put myself out there. And this is a blog, not a book or a script that's taken me months/years to write. J.R.R. Tolkien wrote on publication of The Lord of the Rings, "I have exposed my heart to be shot at." And so often, I'd rather not be a target.
But there are these stories. Usually presenting themselves at the most inconvenient times. They become, not a choice, but a compulsion. Bordering (?) on an obsession. I couldn't answer my classmate's question because I didn't ever choose to write. I had to.
And maybe that's why I've never seen the idea of a vocation as having much to do with happiness, or with doing what you want to do. Don't get me wrong: I'm incredibly fortunate. I love my job and my life. But happiness is uncertain at best, and impossible to control. Whereas there is a terrible joy in doing what you are meant to do.
Sharon - I love especially your last paragraph. I remember once you sagely said (quoting your father?) that when looking at one's vocation, one doesn't look at what problems there will be - because EVERYTHING has problems...but what problems you've been given the grace to solve.
ReplyDeleteToo true, Sharon! Sometimes, it feels like there's no choice to be made. You try not to write, but there are times when you find yourself with pen in hand, staring at a blank sheet of paper just begging to be written on. Or with a few mouse clicks, you find a word processing program on your computer screen. And suddenly, it's like an intangible sort of xenomorph from "Alien"--something is fighting its way out of you! It stumbles, it halts, it falters, it struggles, and it causes you sometimes agonizing problems; but in the end, it leaves you more whole than you were before. Something has expressed itself, and in so doing, it has liberated you in a way you didn't know you needed.
ReplyDeleteAnd now I shall quote Lord Peter Wimsey out of "Gaudy Night": "A very conceited, metaphysical conclusion!"
Hi, Anne! I am thrilled to meet someone who quotes "Gaudy Night"! I nearly put in Harriet's remark about proper feeling and her proper job.
DeleteThe two things I carry with me from "Gaudy Night" are the dangers of idealism...and how the most intense "love" scene one can write is just being really aware of the most minute aspects of another person. Love Sayers!
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