I’m in a writing group, presumably to work towards writing a book. That’s why we formed the group, but so far what I’ve gotten out of it is the startling realization that I just may be against being an author, although I love to write. Back before my nasty expulsion from the
Why don’t I want to write a book? Friends have questioned if it has to do with self esteem issues, with not seeing myself as capable of producing something of value. I’ve questioned this too, and it may have been true at some time, but doesn’t seem to be the issue presently. Do I have something to say? Oh, yes! There’s a shelf of possible tomes, some with titles that tickle and amuse, which is why some of my friends cheer on the idea of pulling at least one out of the ether.
During a long past darkening moon our group wrote about what obstacles we have to writing that we’d like to see wane. I surprised myself by writing a long piece about my fear of having my words “set in stone”, of having to stand by words I no longer believe in. Something about books don’t let things move on, they freeze the author to a particular time and state of mind. This is what I love about blogging. Not only do blogs move thru time and space, you can even go back and change or delete entries. Blogging is fluid, and close to ethereal. And entire blog can be erased with the punch of a few buttons. I love that. A published book can’t be taken back. Somehow, that gives me the jitters.
I had a breakdown/breakthrough as a teenager after reading Colin Turnbull’s books on the Mbuti pygmies. I questioned the whole point of “progress” and western civilization, being struck by how the pygmy culture had endured for years, living in harmony with the forest around them. Sitting down by the creek behind my house, listening to the frogs suddenly felt much more important than my school work. My year imagining myself as a pygmy certainly is part of what led to my being a witch, and I’m sensing that somehow that faux pygmy self is tied up in my resistance to producing a book. Ironic, that the very reading of a book may be the genesis to my resistance to writing one.
I continue to be ambivalent towards monumental culture, that which is obsessed with leaving behind structures/objects which memorialize both the society and self. What does the drive to leave something behind really serve, much less the drive for fame and public recognition? Isn’t the landscape cluttered enough at this point with more stuff than we can ever really use and books we can read and hasn’t “celebrity culture”(which monumental culture birthed) done nothing but produce a sea of narcissists and jerks? And yet, I’m the first to go out and buy the newest Mary Oliver book and last night I found myself wishing I was with my housemate at a swanky party rubbing shoulders with George Clooney. I learned in high school that my western mind could not be put aside. I’m a product of monumental culture who longs to understand how it would feel to be a child of an oral culture, one where there is no drive to leave behind any footprints but stories. Perhaps this is one of the reasons being a therapist suits me so, as nothing ever changes in my room all day but the stories. I love that!
I struggle on in my writing group, and even have produced a pretty good outline on a book about the use of the elements in psychotherapy, which at the very least is a good exercise in clarifying my thoughts on how I work, even if I never publish it. Wow. Even as I write these words, I feel the power of my resistance. I’ve been in covens with two writers who have popular published primers on the Craft. I think given what I’ve seen, I'm not as concerned about failure as I am wary of success. That might really do in my faux pygmy self for once and for all. Maybe it’s time it goes, but I’m just not sure if it’s worth it. Thank goddess for blogging! Who knew the creation of cyberspace would open up a jungle for a faux pygmy to flourish in?!
3 comments:
yes, the beauty of leaving behind a story as footprint is that it does not inprint the earth, yet changes everything. I'm not speaking to any understanding of African-American culture - but of how profoundly I was affected as a teenager by my reading books about an African oral culture, one which existed for centuries with no exposure to the written word and did just fine. That made me question the whole assumption that a book reading civilization is somehow more "advanced".
Deborah this is a beautiful post. You know how in love I am with blogging, for all the reasons you noted, but also because it's free and anyone can do it. You don't need an agent, a publisher, an editor (though sometimes I wish ...). You don't have to promote your blog by getting famous writers to say nice things about it, you don't have to go on a book tour, you don't have to worry if your second book will ever get published.
Save a tree. Blog.
I love you!
This post was incredibly insightful--I have many fears about becoming a writer even though it is my ultimate dream.
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