tamarjacobson

Last night T. asked me how I go about thinking about writing. I had not really thought about it before. And so, I decided to think about it, out loud, here on my blog. The question arose because when he came home in the evening, and as we sat down to dinner, he asked me how my day was. I described a few events and then said, "I sat down to write my chapter and realized I did not know how to start it. And so, I went for a swim at the gym to think about writing." He looked confused. A special look with brow furrowed and perplexities written all over his face. "What?" I asked. "How do you go about thinking about writing?" he asked. I replied that I would have to think about that and we proceeded with our dinner.

During the night my sleep was fitful. Every couple of hours I woke up and just lay there, thinking about how I think about writing.

The fact is, I do not feel as if I think a lot about writing. It comes to me. In the shower, while I am swimming, on the treadmill, driving in my car, walking in the woods, window-shopping in the town, staring at the giant oak tree outside my window, and sometimes when someone says something – a student or a child, friend, character in a movie or book, television actor, blogger, family member or colleague – and it strikes a chord inside my brain, makes a connection with life experience, something I have read, emotional memory – anything. And then, I just want to, no, it is more like have to write it down. If I am not near a computer, any piece of paper will do, including restaurant napkins or a tissue in the car.

As I write thoughts come tumbling, flowing, flopping out one after the other – usually in a stream. And then suddenly I stop and look back at what I have written, see the errors, change edit, snip and paste, move from here to there, and then off I go again. Seldom do I create an outline and decide which will come before what. That happens later, after the words have fallen out of my brain and onto the page, keyboard, or screen. I have tried creating an outline and it helps when writing a book or a dissertation. Knowing which chapter comes before the other. Although even that changes in mid-stream too. Recently I wrote a proposal for my new book and carefully mapped out the table of contents. However, as I was writing the first chapter I realized I would have to change the order of those contents. Mostly, outlines are superfluous for me. They make me feel trapped and repressed, choking for air. I need to know there is a way out, a spontaneity that will allow me to fly if necessary. An escape route.

Last week I went to New York City with a friend. She held onto our train return tickets and I became anxious immediately. I said, joking, but meaning it, "What happens if we have a fight and I want to get the hell out of here? I need my ticket!" She laughed, "No. You will just have to trust me." I laughed too, but replied, "Oh well, I could always buy another one if I need to leave!" I explained to her that I always need an escape route. A way that I can leave if I have to. I have felt that way as along as I can remember. When I was a child and things became unbearable for me, I would withdraw to my room to play out my feelings with small dolls. And in any situation that I feel trapped or out of control, when things feel as if they are becoming insane around me, writing has been a way for me to escape. At the very least, a way to hold onto my sanity, validate my experience, or stay connected to some kind of reality. A strength of will to keep my mind my own. Through writing it down.

Sometimes, I am amazed how things fall into place the first time around. Blog posts, for example, are easier than anything else I write. There are times I only have to change the spelling and it feels complete just the way it is, from the start. However, when I do reach a point where I am stuck, blocked, stumped, against a wall of resistance, the best thing for me is to take a walk, have a hot bath, or, lately, go for a swim at the gym. There is something about the warmth of the water as it caresses my body while I swim laps back and forth with a constant, meditative-type rhythm, that releases my thoughts and allows them to flow again. It is almost as if I am giving myself touch therapy. Stroking my body as one would a child who is troubled, anxious, fearful, in pain. Just being there and listening, gently stroking the body and, thus, wiring and rewiring the brain, waking up those neurons and synaptic connections and past, old, even ancient memories.

In conclusion, I suppose that I think about writing all the time. It accompanies me all day and into my sleep, for I am often awakened out of a dream with an idea that needs to be written down almost immediately. As I write about writing here, I realize how much of it is a part of who I am and how I came to be me, connected to my life experiences, earliest childhood, and behaviors and skills I developed to survive my world. Indeed, I wonder how I would survive if it was taken away from me.

Last year, around this time, I thought my writing was being taken from me and the sadness and anguish was too painful to describe. But even as I seemed to be backed into a hollow and somber dead-end, I held my breath, dived deeper and deeper, and when I reached up, gasping for air, I realized I had arrived at the light, discovered a way out, and, yes, I had survived!

A year ago at Tamarika: Peek-a-boo reflections & Going underground