If I could turn the last two years into music, it would be the bluesy wail of Janis Joplin. Pain, bewilderment, frustration...it's all there. The whole country has been in a funk for five years, regardless of political persuasion. Already teetering on edge, the pandemic sent many of us into a downward spiral that affected every aspect of our lives. That included our ability to create, to lose ourselves in writing.
When the lockdown appeared to be nothing more than an extended "snow day," I thought, "Oh boy! Cleared calendar! I'm going to finish that first (or second or final) draft. Start a new picture book! Maybe two picture books! All this solitude." And some people actually did. I'm sure they did. I wasn't one of them. Each time I opened my laptop, my brain turned to sludge. My thoughts slogged along as if through ankle-deep mud. As for new ideas...I could hear the wind whistle though my vacant brain. Maybe once a month, a tiny thought would flitter through. I'd chase it down to my notebook, ...a desiccated micro-thought. My notebook from 2020 has such entries as "dead butterflies" "dog walk" and "garbage trucks." No notes scribbled around them. Just blank space where a chain of continued thought should have been, but wasn't.
We say that writing is a "solitary" occupation, and it is. But "solitary" doesn't mean writing in a hermetically sealed bubble. Sure, some of the great works of literature were written by hermits and prisoners: Thomas Merton, O. Henry, Nelson Mandela, Defoe, Thoreau, Malcolm X, Emily Dickinson. I am no Emily Dickinson. I need more than my own brain (and in Dickinson's case) a pretty amazing garden, to get my creative motor running. What do I need? I need music. Normally, I have music playing all day, the genre changing according to what I am writing. (My family got burned out on the Beatles and Motown while I was writing Yankee Girl and Benny Goodman and Doris Day during Jimmy's Stars.) However, my husband moved his "office' to the kitchen table where he is on Zoom or conference calls hours a day. I need my writing buddies. Sure, we Zoom, and email and Facebook and every other way of connecting remotely...except you never really feel connected.(And that's why it's called "connecting remotely.")
Maybe it's the lack of spontaneity. Natural conversation is not like a ping-pong game. You talk, then I talk. No interrupting or laughing while talking. Conversational chaos ensues if you do. The conversation devolves to a series of "I'm sorry, you talk first." "No, you talk first." I also don't hear that well...and Facetime/Zoom doesn't have closed captioning. I can attend writing conferences and workshops virtually. But watching a screen for a couple of hours, after which you might run a load of laundry or walk the dog, is no replacement for schmoozing with friends over a glass of wine.
I miss teaching kids. They are always my best inspiration. This has been the second summer in a row without a Young Writer's camp, the high point of my year. Shoot, I miss kids, period! There's no one shooting hoops in my cul-de-sac, or riding bikes down my steep front yard. (I never thought I'd miss kids tearing up the turf!) No kids chasing after the Mr. Softee truck. No teens hanging out at night, sitting on their cars.
Most of all, I miss encounters with complete strangers. Some of my best ideas come from standing in the checkout line at Target, eavesdropping on random conversation. Noticing the nametags of the store employees...then scooting into the bathroom to scribble down future character names like "Santa Fay" and "Fouzia." I didn't set foot in Target for 10 months. When I did, I charged through the store as if I were on Supermarket Sweep, trying to get in and out as fast as possible. I even went through self-check to avoid the line of "complete strangers."
My post was supposed to be about "playing" as a writer. What I've just written is a lament that most of my "toys" have been taken away. Until I get at least some of them back, writing will continue to be a slog through my barren imagination. This empty and sometimes angry life can't last forever. Some day the world will be different. Not the world as it was March 2020, but a better, kinder, more thoughtful world. A world in which creativity will once again flourish. Or so I hope. There is a great scene in a The Simpson sepisode,where television has disappeared from the world. To the strains of Beethoven's "Pastoral" Symphony, children stagger outside, blinking and rubbing their eyes. They then engage in Boomer era activities; hopscotch and jump rope, playing pirate in a tree house. Riding homemade scooters. Sandlot baseball and marbles. (Simpson's creator Matt Groening is three weeks older than me, both of us born in the middle of the Boomer years.) I imagine that some day, Janis' blues will be replaced by Beethoven, as we stagger from our homes, into the sunlight, rubbing our eyes. Meanwhile, I slog on.
Posted by Mary Ann Rodman
Oh, boy, do I hear you, MA! Through some lucky combination of reading, starting small, lowered expectations, and fierce determination, I'm starting to write again. I hope you find your way back, too.
ReplyDeletexox,
JA