When writing, if you don't catch a mind train when it passes, it's probably gone. In this case, I hope not. Commuting across this big, open western valley today, I had a blog post come to me. I was thinking about an art course I'm developing for the boys' home where I teach and some frustrations that came with it. But, as I was reflecting, both the big valley and my daily troubles slipped away as I slid back in time. I assume the road remained ahead of me because I made it home alive, but through my mind's eye, I was back in Miss Jones' Art and Music Appreciation class in 10th grade.
I remember the details of my flashback, but the problem is they are no longer live. Writing that works is always and forever in the present even when written in the past tense. That's because for a moment the writer disappeared and became the transparent eyeball Emerson talks about. I love that state--when the images just flood out in front of you, and you just run behind and write them down as quickly as you can before they slip away. I guess that's why a writer should always have a notebook or electronic device at hand. I could have pulled off the highway and wrote.
I didn't, so this is a pathetic attempt to resuscitate a moment that died sometime after I pulled in the driveway and our new puppy Oreo attacked me, and when I sat down in my recliner to write after driving back into town with Marci and Everest for fast food, running a burger to Rio at work, and coming back home and watering the garden.
That's what kills writing every time. Life. Not past life--that is the source, the well-spring--but current life. It's a damned if you do, damned if you don't scenario. Life is the the spring that feeds writing, so to write well, you've got to be somewhat present in your daily activities or there will be no images to seep into the aquifer to tap into for future writing. Yet, the live moment that fuels the piece you're working on now is seldom the present. You have to let yourself slip away to a different time and place, which means writers are seldom in the moment. This is frustrating for loved ones because they find themselves talking to someone who isn't really there, but it's also frustrating for the writer because his current life keeps infringing on the source of his inspiration.
And though you can develop best writing practices that increase your odds for success, it's hard to build a super highway out of clouds. In the creative process, there is no strait and narrow path. It's more like throwing pieces of plywood out into a foggy bog and hoping you'll find the next footing before the plywood you're standing on now sinks beneath your weight.
What seeped up during my drive home across this big, open valley was a foot in a red sandal rocking nonchalantly back and fourth. I didn't know her. I didn't love her. I don't think I thought too much about her outside of class. I may have known her name then, but I certainly don't now. But she was one of the rich girls, and she was wonderful. The class was full of them. I had taken art and music history because my brother was an artist and I wanted to be an architect. I didn't know when I signed up for the class that I'd also be crossing over to the other side of the tracks. But there she is, foot rocking, sitting so sure and casual, head tilted slightly up, looking at an image of Monet's water lilies projected on the screen at the front of the room, slightly kinky brown hair tucked behind her ear where a dainty gold earring dangles, while Miss Jones goes into detail about the painting and the girls say things like, "Oh, I just love that one; we saw that last summer when we were in Paris."
Damn. People live like that, talk like that? No one even had to raise their hands. It felt like we should each have a cappuccino. I was out of my element; I certainly didn't have it in me to change that reality; but still, there wasn't any place I'd rather be. I'd sit in this class with these girls who talked like women any day and listen them go on about Michelangelo. Had I known who Eliot was at the time, I'd have thought Prufrock had a great life and should just get over it. With women like these, I'd gladly spend my days measuring my life out in teaspoons. It was a heck of a lot better than standing behind a grill in a stupid uniform flipping burgers to help pay the rent.
Miss Jones was an amazing teacher. She took us to museums, galleries, even the opera--a long, miserable night that nearly killed me--and earlier today the swaying foot and red sandal led to such an essay honoring a woman who definitely deserves to be remembered.
But, time has passed, it's a different moment, and the star of this essay is not Miss Jones, not even those wonderful rich girls who talked like women, not even Art & Music History, but instead the writing process and the act of chasing a memory.
When writing, if you don't catch a mind train when it passes, it's probably gone. But if you wait around for a minute, another one might come along.
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