Features
Writing can be a difficult addiction
EDMOND — Mark Twain concluded “Huckleberry Finn” with, “If I’d a knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I wouldn’t a tackled it, and ain’t a-going to no more.” Of course he did, though, to the pleasure of thousands.
But if writing is so difficult, why would he do it? And what set him off in the first place? For some, an addiction to word mongering might have evolved from a classroom experience that went something like this:
“Give me a piece of yourself,” the mentor implored. “Put it down here on the paper. Tear out a thought or a feeling you’ve saved. Write it to share with you neighbor. Ten minutes should be long enough. Don’t think the words, just invite them. Let them spill out of the caves of your heart, soul simmered down to a system.”
Murmurs and rustles of paper subside. Heads bow and time is in limbo. Miracles happen when silence prevails. The clock ticks and pencils scratch tempo. Tiptoe in mute if you dare to intrude. Something is happening. Feel it?
Thoughts and emotions are brimming in this room. Wisdom and joy and a smattering of wit. Giggles and sighs spill out on these desks. Life flows up out of these pencils. Who would have thought that such words could be found, dredged from inside a brain’s wrinkles?
Blast! goes the bell of that tyrant the clock. “Stop! You have used up 10 minutes.”
Scratch, go some pens in desperate flight. Wait! I have yet to complete it.
“Now that you’ve written your innermost thoughts, you’ll share them with your classmates. No, your apology isn’t required. Yes, someone else can read it for you.”
No one will like what I’ve written, I know. Pain! He is reading it. Now they’ll see what I’ve hidden in my heart. How will I bear their ribbing? What if they’re kind and pretend that they’re charmed? Now they all know what I’m feeling. Why have I shown them my secret-most thoughts?
But wait! They’re applauding. They’re smiling at me. How could I ever deny it? I am a writer. I’m proud of myself. No one has labeled me misfit. Words have established a bond between us, my soul has spilled out unbidden. Writing my heart has aligned me with them. They have all felt what I’ve written.
“Yes, you can do it again and again. Words make your thoughts come more freely. You are aligned with an infinite plan. Soul takes its flight from your pen.”
Pop! Pop-pop! Pop-pop-pop! Like kernels in a pan, you fluffed and puffed, expanding yourselves, no two alike. Irrevocably individual in spite of rules and red marks, you went your separate ways.
Scratch. Scratch-scratch ... scratch-scratch-scratch. Pencils moved across paper, throwing down thoughts and not-thoughts. Some things you didn’t know were in your head until they surprised you on paper. A piece of something inside you, yes, but not yours till you gave it away.
You rolled over, you crawled, you stood and walked, and sometimes you ran. A thrill began at the nape of your neck, sometimes because of something you found on your own page, sometimes because of something that fell out of your neighbor’s pen.
We all felt it. A piece of composite life. It made us proud. It made us shy. We applauded ourselves. One writer’s success was each writer’s success, belonging to us all. We were egomaniacs in behalf of each other.
The German author Thomas Mann claimed writing is more difficult for writers than it is for other people. He’s wrong. Those “other people” write for fun.
MARJORIE ANDERSON is an
Edmond resident.
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