Sharon K. loaned me a book titled “The Right to Write”. I have started reading it and am pleased to find that the author, Julia Cameron, writes beautifully. It is a pleasure to read her words. She says that to begin, you must just begin, so as an exercise, write three pages and then stop. Just write whatever comes to your mind. I’m hoping that it will help me to write, to figure out what I want to and SHOULD write. That’s one of the things that are holding me up. I feel an urge to write, but want to write something worth reading, something that will be pleasing to God and fulfill some purpose by helping someone. I also have to admit that I would love to be recognized as a good writer. I would love to be recognized as talented.
I have thought quite a lot about what I want to write and the points I would like to make. Right now, I’m having trouble concentrating because Rascal, our cat, has just sat down on my arms. That’s one of the problems with laptops – cats think the lap is theirs. I suppose I shouldn’t generalize. Rascal thinks that my lap is his. I already lifted him off once. He came back. As you can see, I am capable of writing with him lying on my arms, but it’s not very comfortable. Ah, there goes my mind again. That’s a line from Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer. Rudolf says it after his father puts the plastic nose on him.
Cat removed once again. Where was I? I have several ideas about what I want to write. The thoughts run through my mind when I’m washing dishes and folding laundry – doing mindless tasks. I want to write about the beauty of simplicity, the tensions that I feel as a woman scientist torn between my intellectual interests and maternal needs and duties. I also think about writing about our life, because so much of what I read seems dishonest or disconnected from the way our life unfolds. I think about these things when I’m at the library looking for a book, too. I pick up and discard books, feeling frustrated because I know what kind of book I want to read and can’t find one like that. Then I think, “I should write a book. The kind of book I want to read, a book that would appeal to a woman like me. A book that shows that living in the country is good; that the land, the trees, the birds are important. They fill your life with beauty. I want to write a book that shows that being an intelligent woman makes life difficult. It opens up so many doors and creates so many opportunities that it increases the number of things you have to sift through and the number of things you have to give up. I want to write about loving my kids and being driven crazy by their lack of appreciation, their materialism, their lack of respect.
The cat is back. He is licking my face and snuggling and telling me that he loves me and needs me and wants to sit on my lap. His fur is so soft and his purring so sweet. Once again, I have to make the decision to reject his love and companionship if I want to continue writing, or accept it and stop, for now.
Rascal is outside and I’ve washed my hands and face. I’m allergic to cats....went to the bathroom, too. I’m sitting on the loveseat in the living room. Straight ahead is a window, double hung, at least I think that’s what they call them. And there are two, side-by-side, so I guess that’s double double hung. There are Christmas candles on the window sill and some things hanging that the kids made. Through the window I can see a line of hills with trees in front and a cloudy sky. Partly cloudy, partly sunny. It’s cold. Maybe 30 degrees or so. My hands are cold. They’re always cold. Another thing I want to write about is Togo. I was a Peace Corps volunteer in Togo in the 80s. It seems like good material for a book and I have a journal and audio tapes that I made and sent home to my parents. The trouble is that it was 30 years ago. I’m not the same person anymore and I haven’t been back, so I’m not sure I can capture the memories anymore. Sometimes I see or hear something and it all comes back to me. That used to happen a lot. I missed Togo so much for years and yearned to return. The yearning is gone now, and the memories have faded so much. Brian and I went to Freeport, Bahamas last year. There were a lot of similar sounds and smells. That was interesting. In some way I think it would be easier to write about Togo if I were somewhere similar. It’s difficult to conjure the atmosphere of a tropical third world country when you’re sitting in the northeast in the middle of winter with ice cold hands. The smells, the feel of everything is completely different. In Togo, it was warm or hot and humid. My skin was always moist. I have a few very distinct, vibrant memories: sipping coffee in the early morning and breaking into a sweat; the feel and taste of rice and beans; the image of women and girls carrying huge basins of water on their heads, walking down a dusty road, black skin, legs covered in dust, flip flops and bare feet; children shouting “Yovo Yovo Bon Soir”. How did the air smell? What were the sounds?
Here and now, I hear the furnace working hard, trying to heat up this house, and the clock ticking. Those sounds drown out any noise from outside. Ah, I do hear something else. The furnace has quieted down and now I can hear a thumping noise outside. I think it’s one of the dogs chewing on a bone. We saved a few leg bones from Brian’s deer and threw them to the dogs. There are still a few pieces left, lying around. We have a wrap-around porch and it’s the dogs’ domain. They lie out there, curled in a ball or basking in the sun. Beau tends to sit with his two front paws on the bottom of the railing looking out over the yard – surveying his kingdom. He’s an Airedale Terrier and he doesn’t allow any animals on his property. He barks when birds fly overhead, chases rabbits and squirrels. One day, he was growling and barking, going nuts. I went out to see what was going on. He was picking up sticks, shaking them and growling. I got the impression, although I don’t know for sure, that he was frustrated because a squirrel had gotten away from him and he was taking it out on the sticks.
I search my mind for an interesting story. I love to talk and am always “telling stories”, but they’re so mundane. Would anyone want to read them? Then, I think about making up a story set in northeast Pennsylvania, where I live, and based on the people I know here. There are some interesting people and I can imagine a story, but what if people recognize themselves? What if I insult them? I good story has to have some tension in it. I like stories that involve tension between people that are doing fairly ordinary things, but I want a hero or heroine who struggles and then manages to make the right decision, a decision that I can admire. That decision is stronger when the heroine is surrounded by contrast – people making poor decisions and others making decisions that appear benign or good, but have unexpected consequences that illustrate the philosophy I am trying to promote. For me, that philosophy is judeo-christian.
I recently read a book that I had been wanting to read for some time. I like to read classics and books that are considered noteworthy. This one was science fiction. I thought it would really appeal to me. It didn’t, because it promoted the idea that technology is better and life without technology is barbarous. It promoted the idea that religion is solely a means of controlling people. I agree that religion is a means of controlling people, but I prefer to think that that use of religion is a corruption. It’s not that religion is bad, it’s what people do with it. You know the old saying, “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.” Religion doesn’t control people. People control people, through both religion and science. I’d like to write a book that shows that a scientist can have religious ideas, too; that a mother can be a scientist, too; that being intelligent doesn’t mean you can have it all; that being less intelligent doesn’t mean you have nothing; that how we use our gifts is what defines us, not just the gifts themselves. So........
There is a log house that sits on a hill. It is one of several log houses on that hill. There are many hills and many houses all around, but not too close. An older couple lives in one of the houses with two dachshunds. A family lives in another. They have two dogs and a cat. They eat. They sleep. They work. They do all of the things that they’re expected to do. They have no special powers.
One Saturday, the family is surprised by the arrival of a package. The mother is in the kitchen, as usual, cooking or cleaning up. Dad’s in his office, probably paying bills or something. The children are in the back yard. They’ve been kicked out of the house and told to play outside. They don’t like being told what to do, so they’re sitting on the steps, refusing to play. They know there’s something going on, because the dog starts barking. He has a certain bark that’s used only when someone comes down the driveway.
Mom, her name is Sarah, walks from the kitchen to the living room window that overlooks the driveway to see what’s going on. The kids run around the house, yelling at the dog, calling his name. Dad looks up and then goes back to his task.
Before Sarah gets to the door, the kids have seen that there’s a delivery. They’re shy, though, and hide behind a bush. Sarah walks out, smiles and takes the package.
“Thanks,” she says. “You’re welcome,” says the driver. “Don’t worry about the dogs,” she says. The driver smiles and hands them each a biscuit. “I know,” he says with a smile. “ I’ve been here before. We’re already good friends.”
As he turns to leave, she looks at the return address on the package. It’s from her Aunt Tess. “That’s funny,” she thinks and mutters. “I wonder what this is.” She runs through the possibilities in her mind. Birthdays? No. Christmas? Valentine’s Day? Easter? No, No, No. Hmmm. She starts to open the package and notices that it’s addressed to the kids.
“Lisa! Tommy! Cummear! There’s a package for you,” She shouts. They jump out from behind the bush, shoving and shouting. She had no idea they were there and shrieks, “Oh my gosh! What were you doing back there?”
They laugh like hyenas and grab for the package. “Slow down you two,” Sarah says. “Let’s go inside and see what this is.”
The kids ignore her and keep grabbing. “What is it, Mom? Who’s it from? Gimme it! Quit pushing. Oh, I hate you!” They shout and push and shove, trying to get through the door at the same time. The dogs get all excited by the commotion and start jumping and pushing. One of them gets in the way, gets stepped on and starts yelping. Sarah steps back, takes a deep breath and sighs. “Calm down already. My goodness, you’d think you’d never gotten a package before.”
Tommy makes it to the living room first and starts shouting, “I wanna open it!” Lisa is pouting. “It’s for both of us," she huffs. Then, "Mom!”, she shouts, “He keeps pushing me!”
Dad emerges from his office. “What the heck is going on here?” he demands.
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