A couple of months ago while at a networking mixer a new acquaintance asked what it is I do for a living. I'll never forget the response I got when I said I'm a freelance writer. He looked at me blankly and blurted "Yeah, well everyone's a writer if you give them a pen." Of course, I wasn't about to just let that go. So I sucked in a deep breath and calmly countered with, "True enough; but not everyone can write well." He poked the olive drowning at the bottom of his martini and said "What's it matter? Half the population can't read anyway." When he said that, I knew I had him. I quickly flashed my best and brightest wise-ass grin and asked "So, who's your favorite author?"
He didn't have one. He doesn't read much. Muttered something about not having enough time and reading makes him tired anyway, before he excused himself to hit the bar for a refill. I shrugged his comments off and moved on, secure in the fact that I'd successfully one-upped him.
On the drive home I found myself thinking about what he said. Everyone's a writer if you give them a pen. It irritated me. The whole next day his comments assaulted my concentration to the point that I actually stopped writing midday. Instead I started to examine why in the world I was allowing what this guy said to bother me, even a little.
See, it wasn't really what he said that nagged at me, but that there is really some truth to it - a basis in fact. Not that I think him right, no... not for a moment. But after close consideration I do think him rather, well, average.
Let's face it; there's a large percentage of folks out there who do not regard writing as an art, or even a skill. He's one of them. With the world gone e-mail and the art of the letter all but dead, most people are not what could be characterized as practiced writers. I'm sure the fella was not altogether off base in his assumption that half the population can't read. Now I don't mean that literally. I'm certain that a greater percentage of the industrialized world can and do read, I'm just not convinced that they are practiced readers. If we're not writing letters (I don't know about you, but the majority of e-mails I receive are not by a long shot well constructed so I won't count them as letters) and not adhering to basic writing and language principals will we recognize mistakes while reading books, magazines or the newspaper? Does it matter if I strive to write well, or will my efforts simply go unnoticed?
After much deliberation I've concluded that yes, it does matter if I write well and yes, my efforts will probably go unnoticed... and they should. By all. No one should take note of smooth, accurate writing. If it reads in such a way that not one person notices a thing about the writing other than the story itself, then I have done my job well.
I suppose it is true that everyone with a pen, or these days, a keyboard can write. Not everyone is going to appreciate a well written and compelling story. Not everyone reads or reads often enough. My martini sipping acquaintance got that right, and he'll probably never become aware of what he got wrong. So, what's it matter?
Maybe it's not for him to know, or even worry about. But as a writer, it is my job to contemplate such things. To elevate my work - whether it is writing the copy for an advertisement, etching an article, scribbling an essay or immersing myself in constructing novel length fiction. It may never matter to any other person who reads my writings, but it means everything to me.
What's it matter? It matters plenty.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Open Letter to Emily's Mother
You don't know me. We've never met, and honestly I'm not sure I would want to meet you. But I know your child. She started summer camp two weeks ago. Did you know? Do you care?
Her father or grandmother drop her off and pick her up. They had to explain to us the reason five year old Emily constantly breaks down in tears. You see, they had to tell us because your daughter gets so distraught that she can hardly speak. Did you know? Do you care?
Apparently the Family court Judge didn't think you cared enough when Emily was removed from your custody, and placed with her father. Wonder what you did, or what you failed to do to have your child taken out of your home. Of course, we were also told how the Judge awarded you frequent visitation rights; overnights, weekends, etc. so Emily would see her mother frequently. That you did know, though it is clear you don't care, since you haven't bothered to try to see or talk to your little girl even once in three months.
She's never been separated from you, not for as much as a few days until now. She's only five and right now she's so emotionally bankrupt that she can't eat, she barely sleeps, and in two weeks I haven't seen her eyes stay dry for longer than an hour.
Have you ever seen a five year old with dark circles under the eyes? Can you imagine the agonizing pleading in her soft blue tear-filled eyes as she tries to choke out "I miss my mommy?" That's what Emily repeats over and over again every day. In all my years of working with children, I have never met a sadder child. Did you know that she went on a field trip today and while all the other kids laughed and had fun, five year old Emily sobbed for the love of her mother? Do you care?
I hope that one day you are made accountable for the pain you are causing to your own precious child. I hope one day you have to look into her unforgiving eyes and explain just what you were doing that was more important than being there for Emily when she needed you most. I hope that her contempt for you causes you to feel fragile and vulnerable and frightened. I hope that one day she abandons you, when you need her most. And I hope that one day you wake up and realize what you've lost - what you can never make-up for - what you can never get back. And I hope the thought of it tortures you to your very soul through all eternity.
That would be justice. Perhaps then, you'd finally care.
Her father or grandmother drop her off and pick her up. They had to explain to us the reason five year old Emily constantly breaks down in tears. You see, they had to tell us because your daughter gets so distraught that she can hardly speak. Did you know? Do you care?
Apparently the Family court Judge didn't think you cared enough when Emily was removed from your custody, and placed with her father. Wonder what you did, or what you failed to do to have your child taken out of your home. Of course, we were also told how the Judge awarded you frequent visitation rights; overnights, weekends, etc. so Emily would see her mother frequently. That you did know, though it is clear you don't care, since you haven't bothered to try to see or talk to your little girl even once in three months.
She's never been separated from you, not for as much as a few days until now. She's only five and right now she's so emotionally bankrupt that she can't eat, she barely sleeps, and in two weeks I haven't seen her eyes stay dry for longer than an hour.
Have you ever seen a five year old with dark circles under the eyes? Can you imagine the agonizing pleading in her soft blue tear-filled eyes as she tries to choke out "I miss my mommy?" That's what Emily repeats over and over again every day. In all my years of working with children, I have never met a sadder child. Did you know that she went on a field trip today and while all the other kids laughed and had fun, five year old Emily sobbed for the love of her mother? Do you care?
I hope that one day you are made accountable for the pain you are causing to your own precious child. I hope one day you have to look into her unforgiving eyes and explain just what you were doing that was more important than being there for Emily when she needed you most. I hope that her contempt for you causes you to feel fragile and vulnerable and frightened. I hope that one day she abandons you, when you need her most. And I hope that one day you wake up and realize what you've lost - what you can never make-up for - what you can never get back. And I hope the thought of it tortures you to your very soul through all eternity.
That would be justice. Perhaps then, you'd finally care.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
First Class, Or Coach?
Freelance writing is how I make my living and I enjoy it; but nothing is as rewarding on a personal level as coaching. Even creative writing cannot compare with the exhilaration of watching a kid progress into a confident athlete.
This weekend was not altogether unlike many others I've spent working in gymnastics. I traveled across the state to attend a gymnastics clinic. Compulsory camps are something I try to do every summer, along with other coaches from our gym, but this is the first year we brought our team with us. Since the camp/clinic was hosted by one of the most respected gyms in Florida, the kids were nervous. After all, this is an Olympic year and the kids knew that some of the coaches they'd be working with during the clinic currently have more than a few athletes at Junior National Team level. Very impressive. Very exciting. Very intimidating.
We did our best to keep our team kids calm and confident. During the first few hours of the clinic they worked harder than they'd ever expected to. I was amazed at just how much effort the clinic coaches could get out of these gymnasts. Not that the kids don't work hard at our gym, they most certainly do, but this was different. The kids put in an eight and a half hour work day the first day of this compulsory camp and a straight eight hours the second day. Our own workouts never go over four hours, so this was a bit of shell-shock to our athletes. The amazing part was that even though they were utterly exhausted, they never complained. Every now and then I would see a yawn, but other than a few passing comments of "I'm tired," none of the kids griped.
That was astonishing. Especially since the athletes were doing three hour rotations on each event. Now, for those of you who are not gymnastically savvy, I can't emphasize enough just how grueling three hours working out on uneven bars is, even if your in optimum physical condition. It's difficult to understand how gymnasts can take the punishment their hands alone endure from bar routines - and after three hours the skin starts to rip and peel. Still, their determination went undiminished, even if they were somewhat less enthusiastic.
The facility, or "club" that hosted this event is as mentioned already, among the best in Florida and arguably has one of the most sought after programs in the southern states. I'm always in awe of the sheer amount and quality of equipment the place houses. The gym where I coach has everything we need, but nothing extra and our stuff is for the most part older and well worn. It's like coach nirvana to imagine access to so much new or like-new training material. During a break I got to talking to some of the instructors teaching the clinic and expressed my envy of their coaching environment.
Boy, was I surprised to hear just how frustrated some of them sounded in their first-class facility. They complained because they get severely limited time on equipment to work with athletes not considered "elite." One coach told of his ire at having to train a class of sixteen lower level gymnasts using only one piece of equipment, because the head coach insists that the elite, Junior National level gymnasts have exclusive access to everything else. I was floored to hear that but for the money, most of these high level coaches actually envied my coaching environment. They all spoke openly about their dissatisfaction, and explained that their talents were relegated to little more than churning out success. It kind of made me wonder at what cost do they churn, but I didn't dare ask.
The answer came soon enough. Not because anyone spoke up, but because I noticed something. The rapport their own athletes have with them is not at all what we see from our athletes. There's a coldness, a professionalism. Not from the coaches, but from the kids. They can do a perfect Back Handspring, but they don't come bouncing up to their coach for a pat on the back or a hug after a great routine. It dawned on me as I was literally being smothered by two of my own kids coming up for a reassuring hug after falling off beam.
Their kids did lovely routines. No falls. No hugs.
This weekend I learned the true value of coaching as I was wiping a tear, fixing a French braid and explaining the importance of pointed toes. First class may come with all the prestige and the luxury, but I'd rather go coach.
This weekend was not altogether unlike many others I've spent working in gymnastics. I traveled across the state to attend a gymnastics clinic. Compulsory camps are something I try to do every summer, along with other coaches from our gym, but this is the first year we brought our team with us. Since the camp/clinic was hosted by one of the most respected gyms in Florida, the kids were nervous. After all, this is an Olympic year and the kids knew that some of the coaches they'd be working with during the clinic currently have more than a few athletes at Junior National Team level. Very impressive. Very exciting. Very intimidating.
We did our best to keep our team kids calm and confident. During the first few hours of the clinic they worked harder than they'd ever expected to. I was amazed at just how much effort the clinic coaches could get out of these gymnasts. Not that the kids don't work hard at our gym, they most certainly do, but this was different. The kids put in an eight and a half hour work day the first day of this compulsory camp and a straight eight hours the second day. Our own workouts never go over four hours, so this was a bit of shell-shock to our athletes. The amazing part was that even though they were utterly exhausted, they never complained. Every now and then I would see a yawn, but other than a few passing comments of "I'm tired," none of the kids griped.
That was astonishing. Especially since the athletes were doing three hour rotations on each event. Now, for those of you who are not gymnastically savvy, I can't emphasize enough just how grueling three hours working out on uneven bars is, even if your in optimum physical condition. It's difficult to understand how gymnasts can take the punishment their hands alone endure from bar routines - and after three hours the skin starts to rip and peel. Still, their determination went undiminished, even if they were somewhat less enthusiastic.
The facility, or "club" that hosted this event is as mentioned already, among the best in Florida and arguably has one of the most sought after programs in the southern states. I'm always in awe of the sheer amount and quality of equipment the place houses. The gym where I coach has everything we need, but nothing extra and our stuff is for the most part older and well worn. It's like coach nirvana to imagine access to so much new or like-new training material. During a break I got to talking to some of the instructors teaching the clinic and expressed my envy of their coaching environment.
Boy, was I surprised to hear just how frustrated some of them sounded in their first-class facility. They complained because they get severely limited time on equipment to work with athletes not considered "elite." One coach told of his ire at having to train a class of sixteen lower level gymnasts using only one piece of equipment, because the head coach insists that the elite, Junior National level gymnasts have exclusive access to everything else. I was floored to hear that but for the money, most of these high level coaches actually envied my coaching environment. They all spoke openly about their dissatisfaction, and explained that their talents were relegated to little more than churning out success. It kind of made me wonder at what cost do they churn, but I didn't dare ask.
The answer came soon enough. Not because anyone spoke up, but because I noticed something. The rapport their own athletes have with them is not at all what we see from our athletes. There's a coldness, a professionalism. Not from the coaches, but from the kids. They can do a perfect Back Handspring, but they don't come bouncing up to their coach for a pat on the back or a hug after a great routine. It dawned on me as I was literally being smothered by two of my own kids coming up for a reassuring hug after falling off beam.
Their kids did lovely routines. No falls. No hugs.
This weekend I learned the true value of coaching as I was wiping a tear, fixing a French braid and explaining the importance of pointed toes. First class may come with all the prestige and the luxury, but I'd rather go coach.
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Integrity
Whatever happened to the simple premise of holding oneself to a standard of personal and professional integrity? In the recent past this question has arisen ad nauseam. We've all been inundated with news stories and commentary that highlight the decline of seemingly any standard - even low standards - for personal, governmental, and corporate conduct. The Enron debacle, Martha Stewart insider trading, Prisoner abuse in Iraq, The New York Times reporting inaccurate and even utterly false stories! You KNOW there is a downward spiral of integrity when even the exalted New York Times can't be trusted.
The abuses seem to be running rampant, that is, if we are to believe the media who are ever-ready to gleefully saturate the evening news and morning paper with such reports. No one seems to be immune to the lure of dishonesty. Why pay when you can steal it? Why be honest when lies are so much juicier than the truth? Heck, even our nations Presidents bend the truth or outright lie to suit their needs, lest we forget the lurid Clinton/Lewinsky scandal or the notorious yet still missing weapons of mass destruction.
Lack of moral code spills over into everyday life, well... everyday. I have a client who owes me a substantial amount of money. It's been months. Think she cares? Then there's the mechanic who tried to convince me I needed an $1100.00 repair, when all I really needed was a shot of Freon in my air conditioner. Thankfully one of the gentlemen he works with "Figured out the problem" when I let them know there was no way I could afford such a repair at this time. Amazing.
All of this has caused me to examine how writers approach integrity in creative writing. It's so subjective. Characters, plots, motivations all drive the creative work, but how do we define creative? Hasn't everything been done before? Realistically, we all give our characters different names but hasn't every personality - every divisive flaw been already written? Our plots and stories may not be as fresh and unique as we'd like to think they are. Chances are examples can be found throughout literature of similar works that precede even what's currently on the fiction best seller list.
Is it okay to borrow so long as you are not actually stealing? I struggled with this question, and finally came to the conclusion that in the world of creative writing - you bet it is.
As long as there have been stories there have been new slants. Redirection of plots, reinventing character "types" and expanding or narrowing motivations all bring the writer as close as possible to originality. It is not a lack of integrity to borrow from what has come before so long as in the process the writer creates something that can stand on it's own as an original work.
Each of us must define for ourselves our creative standard of integrity. New stories simply could not be written with out it. Perhaps creativity is the last bastion yet to be corrupted by dishonesty. Curious that in a world dominated by the lie, what creative writers find most engaging is the truth.
The abuses seem to be running rampant, that is, if we are to believe the media who are ever-ready to gleefully saturate the evening news and morning paper with such reports. No one seems to be immune to the lure of dishonesty. Why pay when you can steal it? Why be honest when lies are so much juicier than the truth? Heck, even our nations Presidents bend the truth or outright lie to suit their needs, lest we forget the lurid Clinton/Lewinsky scandal or the notorious yet still missing weapons of mass destruction.
Lack of moral code spills over into everyday life, well... everyday. I have a client who owes me a substantial amount of money. It's been months. Think she cares? Then there's the mechanic who tried to convince me I needed an $1100.00 repair, when all I really needed was a shot of Freon in my air conditioner. Thankfully one of the gentlemen he works with "Figured out the problem" when I let them know there was no way I could afford such a repair at this time. Amazing.
All of this has caused me to examine how writers approach integrity in creative writing. It's so subjective. Characters, plots, motivations all drive the creative work, but how do we define creative? Hasn't everything been done before? Realistically, we all give our characters different names but hasn't every personality - every divisive flaw been already written? Our plots and stories may not be as fresh and unique as we'd like to think they are. Chances are examples can be found throughout literature of similar works that precede even what's currently on the fiction best seller list.
Is it okay to borrow so long as you are not actually stealing? I struggled with this question, and finally came to the conclusion that in the world of creative writing - you bet it is.
As long as there have been stories there have been new slants. Redirection of plots, reinventing character "types" and expanding or narrowing motivations all bring the writer as close as possible to originality. It is not a lack of integrity to borrow from what has come before so long as in the process the writer creates something that can stand on it's own as an original work.
Each of us must define for ourselves our creative standard of integrity. New stories simply could not be written with out it. Perhaps creativity is the last bastion yet to be corrupted by dishonesty. Curious that in a world dominated by the lie, what creative writers find most engaging is the truth.
Monday, July 12, 2004
Writing Rather Than Procrastinating
Sometimes I find it so difficult to commit time to my creative writing. I suppose that it is a dilemma common to most freelancers. You find yourself getting so caught up in writing for a living that you forget to write for yourself. In my own case, I will not allow myself to work on my creative manuscripts until I have completed whatever projects I am working on professionally. I promise myself that I will have permission to write creatively after all of my client related writing projects are completed. That's what I tell myself anyway. The conflict arises because even after my professional projects are completed, I still will not give myself permission to write creatively until after I have successfully managed to land several more writing gigs - and so it becomes a vicious cycle of procrastination.
It's not that I'm lazy or that I'm uninspired. Heck, give me a deadline and I'll deliver completed drafts not on time - but ahead of time. It's a work ethic that keeps me very popular with clients. It's not like I avoid writing. On the contrary, I write everyday and usually for several hours.
I think my creative procrastination can be likened to a survival mechanism. I tell myself I haven't earned the right to creative expression until I have earned my keep financially. And most of the time I don't feel creatively stifled or starved, at least not utterly. To be a good copywriter one must absolutely be creative. After all, a copywriter is forever seeking out new and creative uses for what I like to call execu-jargon terms such as "value added." But at the end of the day, even the most creative copywriting project just doesn't deliver the same level of satisfaction as my own creative projects.
So now I have begun examining my reasons for creative procrastination. I mean it is so frustrating that the type of writing I take the most pleasure in, is the one I am least likely to pursue. The demands of life and a paycheck take precedence and simply put there are times that writing creatively is a luxury that I cannot afford; or at least I tell myself that. I guess it softens the blow.
I also believe there is an underlying issue lurking just below the surface that I am in consistent denial of: The issue of self-worth. Getting caught up in self-doubt. How do I justify time spent writing book length creative fiction that could otherwise be spent drumming up new clients? It's doubtful that anyone will ever be interested in it anyway. It's probably gonna suck, and even if it doesn't it's unlikely that it will ever wind up in publication and even if it did odds are it'll tank. Who do I think I am writing book length anything?
Well ... there it is. How can a writer argue with her own worst critic? I guess the only way is by proving the critic wrong. By writing that creative fiction, because I can and I want to. By completing my manuscripts simply on the merits of personal satisfaction. By querying agents and publishers with the completed and thoroughly edited final drafts.
Not that doing all of that would ever completely silence the voice of self-doubt. No, I'm certain that will plague me throughout my writing life. But by committing to writing rather than procrastinating I may just experience a level of satisfaction that far exceeds that of earning money. Not that earning money is bad. Who doesn't love being able to pay their bills and perhaps enjoy and evening out once in a while? Money is awesome, it's just that there are some things you cannot put a price on. At least not until after your manuscript is accepted for publication!
Sunday, July 11, 2004
Dust In The Wind
There are days you wake up feeling like you've got the world by the tail. This day didn't start out nearly that optimistic. No. I woke to a pounding on my front door at 7:45 AM. Okay, maybe it was really just a knocking - but at 7:45 in the morning, on a Saturday, it's pounding. Of course, the paint contractor I hired to repair ceiling damage in my family room arrived early. Who's ever heard of a contractor arriving EARLY?
His mission was to work a miracle and fix the 3ft long tear that resulted from my roof leaking several weeks ago. My brand new roof. So now I have another brand new roof and a brand new ceiling, courtesy of my Knight in white coveralls to boot! I just didn't expect him before I had a chance to down a pot of Folgers.
The contractor was here all day. I took my pot of coffee into my office and checked my e-mail, burned some new tunes onto disk, ate a Pop-Tart, poured more coffee, watched the news, and did everything but write.
Oh, yeah... that's right, did I mention I'm a writer? Actually I freelance full-time which means I can procrastinate in the morning if I feel like it. And that is exactly what I did.
Most weeks I try to get all of my work related writing penned before the weekend hits, that way I can feign a more normal schedule. Hey it gives me a reason to get excited about Fridays. Anyway, as I was hanging out in full sloth mode it occurred to me that my office was a wreck. Eh, I ignored it while I enjoyed another cup of coffee.
I don't know if I can begin to describe the amount of dust that was produced by the work being done on my ceiling. Let's just say that my Knight in white coveralls was surrounded by such a thick cloud of misty looking dust that he took on an almost ethereal quality. There ended my procrastinating, slothful morning. The biggest shock was just how much dust settle beneath the tarps my contractor painstakingly laid everywhere.
The contractor was finished by mid afternoon, but I did not stop cleaning until round about 8:30 PM. Of course the dust had one benefit. It forced me to address the mess in my office. But I didn't simply clean - I completely restructured my entire workspace. I went through all of my old papers, got rid of a ton of crap I no longer need. I even cleaned out my Grandmother's old sewing machine desk. She past away in 1991 and I became the familial custodian of her old, and I mean old, Singer sewing machine. It is kind of neat really. It is housed in this heavy wooden desk and the actual sewing machine is stored inside the desk. I never thought to use it as a writing desk before now. Heck, I never really wanted to go poking around in the drawers.
It is odd how even after so many years have past it still felt as if I were snooping as I pulled out old bits of paper, tons of thread, elastic binding, and a treasury of old sewing machine toolery. All kinds of bits and pieces that reminded me of my Grandmother, who we referred to simply as "Little Nana." She was a seamstress in the fashion district in New York for most of her adult life. As I rummaged around in her old Singer it dawned on me that this is the very machine she used to create dresses that were truly masterpieces. I found myself wishing that the darn thing could talk. What stories could it tell me about the crystal button I found or the pen from the funeral home that hosted my Grandfather's wake. Why did my Grandmother keep religious medals and a cross in the drawers of her sewing machine? Where in the world did she find the funny little red leather change purse with the silver buttons that folded like origami?
I spent hours in my dust filled office, in my dust filled house peeling layers of history from within the drawers of the Singer. All the little bits of the past stood as tiny nuances of a life that was in so many ways, woven in the thread of that machine. I thought about how many hours my Nana spent laboring over the Singer. How many buttons did she sew, or seams did she hem. And it occurred to me that for all our differences, many parallels can be drawn between her working life and mine. She worked hard to perfect her craft. She spent long days and probably nights at her work desk. She was never satisfied with less-than-perfect; I clearly recall her scraping fabric to start anew.
Sounds a great deal like the life of a writer to me. Now as I sit in my dust free office in my dust free house (for the moment it's dust free anyway) Little Nana's old Singer is my new writing desk. It's giving me a renewed sense of my own history and just having it so nearby is surprisingly comforting. Raiding it's drawers afforded me new insight on my Nana's life. I kept the old cross and the religious metals and the funny little red change purse in it, along with the spools of thread and toolery. Those items are supposed to remain there. Just like I was supposed to wade through a dust covered mess before I reconciled to snoop in Little Nana's drawers, revealing the remnants of her life.
The Singer feels like an old friend now. It shared it's secrets. It seems fitting that even though I'll never sew, I'll work and write on the same space where Little Nana spent so much of her time. So much for dust.
His mission was to work a miracle and fix the 3ft long tear that resulted from my roof leaking several weeks ago. My brand new roof. So now I have another brand new roof and a brand new ceiling, courtesy of my Knight in white coveralls to boot! I just didn't expect him before I had a chance to down a pot of Folgers.
The contractor was here all day. I took my pot of coffee into my office and checked my e-mail, burned some new tunes onto disk, ate a Pop-Tart, poured more coffee, watched the news, and did everything but write.
Oh, yeah... that's right, did I mention I'm a writer? Actually I freelance full-time which means I can procrastinate in the morning if I feel like it. And that is exactly what I did.
Most weeks I try to get all of my work related writing penned before the weekend hits, that way I can feign a more normal schedule. Hey it gives me a reason to get excited about Fridays. Anyway, as I was hanging out in full sloth mode it occurred to me that my office was a wreck. Eh, I ignored it while I enjoyed another cup of coffee.
I don't know if I can begin to describe the amount of dust that was produced by the work being done on my ceiling. Let's just say that my Knight in white coveralls was surrounded by such a thick cloud of misty looking dust that he took on an almost ethereal quality. There ended my procrastinating, slothful morning. The biggest shock was just how much dust settle beneath the tarps my contractor painstakingly laid everywhere.
The contractor was finished by mid afternoon, but I did not stop cleaning until round about 8:30 PM. Of course the dust had one benefit. It forced me to address the mess in my office. But I didn't simply clean - I completely restructured my entire workspace. I went through all of my old papers, got rid of a ton of crap I no longer need. I even cleaned out my Grandmother's old sewing machine desk. She past away in 1991 and I became the familial custodian of her old, and I mean old, Singer sewing machine. It is kind of neat really. It is housed in this heavy wooden desk and the actual sewing machine is stored inside the desk. I never thought to use it as a writing desk before now. Heck, I never really wanted to go poking around in the drawers.
It is odd how even after so many years have past it still felt as if I were snooping as I pulled out old bits of paper, tons of thread, elastic binding, and a treasury of old sewing machine toolery. All kinds of bits and pieces that reminded me of my Grandmother, who we referred to simply as "Little Nana." She was a seamstress in the fashion district in New York for most of her adult life. As I rummaged around in her old Singer it dawned on me that this is the very machine she used to create dresses that were truly masterpieces. I found myself wishing that the darn thing could talk. What stories could it tell me about the crystal button I found or the pen from the funeral home that hosted my Grandfather's wake. Why did my Grandmother keep religious medals and a cross in the drawers of her sewing machine? Where in the world did she find the funny little red leather change purse with the silver buttons that folded like origami?
I spent hours in my dust filled office, in my dust filled house peeling layers of history from within the drawers of the Singer. All the little bits of the past stood as tiny nuances of a life that was in so many ways, woven in the thread of that machine. I thought about how many hours my Nana spent laboring over the Singer. How many buttons did she sew, or seams did she hem. And it occurred to me that for all our differences, many parallels can be drawn between her working life and mine. She worked hard to perfect her craft. She spent long days and probably nights at her work desk. She was never satisfied with less-than-perfect; I clearly recall her scraping fabric to start anew.
Sounds a great deal like the life of a writer to me. Now as I sit in my dust free office in my dust free house (for the moment it's dust free anyway) Little Nana's old Singer is my new writing desk. It's giving me a renewed sense of my own history and just having it so nearby is surprisingly comforting. Raiding it's drawers afforded me new insight on my Nana's life. I kept the old cross and the religious metals and the funny little red change purse in it, along with the spools of thread and toolery. Those items are supposed to remain there. Just like I was supposed to wade through a dust covered mess before I reconciled to snoop in Little Nana's drawers, revealing the remnants of her life.
The Singer feels like an old friend now. It shared it's secrets. It seems fitting that even though I'll never sew, I'll work and write on the same space where Little Nana spent so much of her time. So much for dust.
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