Dear Writing,
It probably seems strange to you that I’m writing you a letter, since we spend time together almost every day. But there are things I want to tell you, and sometimes I find that I can share my thoughts more clearly in a letter than in a face to face conversation.
It was wonderful having you around so much when I was pregnant with Rutie, all those years ago. But after she was born, you quickly became my lowest priority, just as you had when each of her older siblings was born. Once again, you slipped gracefully into the background. Even though I couldn’t spend much time with you, you stuck around, and your patience was rewarded when Rutie was old enough to join her siblings at school. For a few years, you and I had some lovely times together. But then, when Rutie was in the third grade, I needed to go back to work. With three kids and a job, there was no room in my life for you anymore. Every minute of every day was full of other, more pressing, obligations. I appreciate how understanding you were when I asked you to stay away from me as much as possible.
I always hoped that once the kids were out of the house, and I retired from my job, you and I would spend time together again. But I worried that there wouldn’t be anything left of our relationship when I finally got to that point. After I went back to work, I did try to maintain my connection with you. But it was so difficult. As the years went by and we managed just the occasional visit, I began to wonder if I would ever have a real relationship with you again. But one by one, the children grew up and left home to start their grownup lives. And then the day came when I was able to retire from my job. Suddenly, there was plenty of time for us to be together. I discovered, to my relief, that you were still interested. But our relationship was weak.
At first, I thought the best way to rebuild our relationship was to be with you all the time. I invited you to move back in. My husband, ever tolerant, was as supportive as always. But I learned to my surprise that I can’t spend all day every day with you, even when I don’t have anything else pressing to do. Being together is often wonderful. But I think you’ll agree that being together too much is often terrible. I get exhausted and overwhelmed. I get depressed about my past. Or I get so frustrated that I never want to see you again. I guess you’re too much for me. Maybe you’ve always been too much for me. In any case, I find I need to put limits on our time together. I’m not willing to give you all of myself. Thank you for accepting this so graciously.
When we were younger, I didn’t understand why you were important to me. I thought that making you the center of my life was the only way I could prove that I was a worthwhile human being. Then I had my kids and I realized that raising them was more important to me than spending time with you. And I learned that I’m a worthwhile human being with or without you. I’m worthwhile in and of myself, no matter what I choose to do with my life.
What I know now is that the reason you’re important to me is because spending time with you is the way I make meaning out of my life. You help me understand myself and my experiences. In some ways, being with you is how I create myself.
You’ve taught me to look for meaning primarily in everyday experiences. You’ve shown me that the essential events are the small events, the contents of daily life. You’ve helped me understand the way in which these small experiences stand in for life itself, how they capture and carry meaning.
You’ve taught me to treasure those moments when I have a sudden flash of insight or deeper than usual understanding of myself or the world, as well as those moments when something shifts and I connect with another person in a deep and unexpected way.
You’ve taught me to express myself in a more and more straightforward voice, to echo that voice in my head which I know is yours. I’ve learned to focus on my most basic feelings, the ones that underlie all the others, to search for the simplest story that still holds all of the complexity of my experience.
You’ve taught me that no one else can tell my story, no one else can make my meaning out of my life. You’ve supported my belief that I have the right to control the narrative of my life, the story that carries the meaning we’ve made.
You’ve taught me that the important part of our relationship is not what we can produce together, but the process of producing it, the hours we spend together trying to distill my experiences down to their essence, trying to bring depth to everyday life, trying to capture those moments of illumination when profound meaning suddenly flares.
Writing, you’ve been a true and loyal friend. Even though I’ve often neglected you, you’ve always been there for me when I’ve made time for you. Over the years, I’ve recorded all of our discussions in my journals, and now I find I can bring those meetings to life and share them with others.
My ideas about you used to be so romantic. But now I know that, just like a marriage, a successful relationship with you is hard work. And the truth is, I don’t always feel like working hard. I’m older now and sometimes I’m tired. We’re in the middle of a pandemic and sometimes I’m depressed. But I always find that if I stay away from you for too long, I start to miss you and remember once again that the difficult work of being with you is worth the deeper insight I gain into myself and my life.
You don’t have to follow me around anymore, hoping for some attention from me. You can count on meeting me in my study pretty regularly. Thank you for respecting my need to stay away from you sometimes. And thank you for being there whenever I do want to connect.
My dear old friend, it feels good having you in my life again.
All my love, Karen
Sometimes life gets in the way of our relationship with our creativity. With the exception of motherhood, I’ve felt the most alive when I’m in that relationship, when I’m quilting or painting or whatever creative project I’ve decided to tackle. Writing is a secret creative relationship I’ve been having for years, but it’s all been in my head, never committed to, never taken to the next level of a true relationship. A few weeks ago I made the decision to commit to that relationship. It’s a new relationship for me, I have many doubts about my abilities to make it work. Reading your letters helped me see that I don’t have to give this new relationship my everything, I just need to give it enough to keep it alive.
Yes! I think that, just like a relationship with an actual person, the more you give to a creative pursuit, the more you may get back. But also, it’s possible to give too much, and lose your way or even your self. Some people can sit and write all day and be fine. But I can’t. And I’ve realized that’s OK.
I think that by accepting it’s the process of writing that matters more than what is actually produced opens the door to a healthier and more peaceful relationship with writing. As you expressed, Karen, the process of writing brings much wisdom and insight about important everyday life experiences.
Molly, I can’t tell you how much better my relationship with writing becomes the more I focus on the process rather than the product. It’s also been good for me to let go of the idea that I’m not a “real” writer if I don’t publish my writing. This blog works well for me as a sort of compromise – a way to share my work with some people I trust, without all the stress of trying to publish.
I love that you’re writing to your writing. It seems very natural and “of course!” once I started to read your pieces, but the very idea of having a relationship with your writing, and writing to “it”, is sort of shocking. In a wonderful way.
The act of making your writing an entity in itself (or maybe more like, recognizing that your writing is an entity separate from yourself), and addressing that entity, discussing your shared relationship with that entity – it’s powerful. I’m still chewing on it all. Kudos and thank you! 🙂
Thanks, Gina. Writing these letters over the years has helped me so much to understand how I’ve felt about writing at different times in my life, what it has meant to me, what direction I’ve wanted to go with it, etc.. I think the original idea of “writing to your writing” was a prompt that Cathy Johnson used in one of her classes. But that was eons ago, so I’m not sure my memory is correct. 🙂