My first Wednesday

The prologue one  of Linda Eyre’s  first book said something like

“For my birthday this year my husband gave me Wednesdays”

I always liked that idea.

“You should write a book.” My husband tells me all the time.

“We’ll be rich” he teases. 

And I look at him, like sure, yup, in all my spare time dear, no prob.

“Honey”, I say, “ books don’t make that much money.”

“Um…Harry Potter???”

I tell him why I can’t. (Really reaffirming to myself why I can’t.)

Tell myself I don’t want to.

But I do. Not a book. But I do want to write.

I always have.

I wanted good grades, even in math (even though it was sooo much harder for me than the other subjects). But when It came to writing  it wasn’t the “A “I was shooting for.

It was a need.

A need to express. A need to emotionally dismantle and hopefully in the dissection understand, even just a little.

As my new hero Anna Quindlen says “Women [are] in the business of emotional deconstruction."

Reading good writing always makes me want to write.  (And man was Anna Quindlen's book a good book!)

I’m just so impatient. I don’t want to crumple up drafts. Or delete.

I don’t even want to edit (obviously) .

But maybe I’m ready to do some of the preliminary work. 

 Yikes! I already cringe at the level of commitment even typing this proclaims.

I am still so selfish in my writing. Greedy. Wanting words and phrases to effortlessly flow. Just like I want to “be a runner”, oh but I can’t run everyday. I want to run once in a while and still have all the glory with none of the sweat. And then I’m shocked that after just a few skipped mornings I’m thrust back to square one in my endurance.  

Muscles and skills deteriorate so quickly.

“Anything worth doing is worth doing poorly” 

Ben’s mission president’s slogan has always stuck with me.

I have always wanted to do this. Known that part of me feeling like life is compete, includes me writing (journals, notes to friends, this blog.)

I was (and am) just scared.

“A successful novel is always driven by character. And frankly when I write, I’m mainly telling the story to myself. Thinking about audience is too daunting…” wrote Anna Quindlen, in an interview at the end of her amazing novel that had me bawling on the way too and from Mexico...no really, full out sobbing on the run way!)

The truth is, I think about audience all the time.  The young mom needing a boost to make it through her afternoon with crabby kids. The grammer conscious reader who can harldy believe this girl has a degree, let alone  a major in English (what is post secondary education coming too?). Furutre generations-- some distant great-great grand-daughter who for some reason feels maybe her dead Grandma Bretzke’s thoughts might clarify her own experience.  Mrs. Quindlen is right, it is daunting!

Maybe I’m still too self absorbed. Egocentric in my need to still figure out my own thoughts and feelings. (Both that flow faster than I could ever hope to type anyway!)

I want to write myself. Not because I think I have any really profound ideas, or unique thoughts, in fact I very much agree with  the quote,

"There is nothing worth thinking but it has been thought before; we must only try to think it again."

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE 

Yes, perhaps I haven't thought it yet. Just because millions of women have given birth doesn't lessen the singularity of my own experience bringing my children into this world.
Vicariousness only goes so far. Experience brings understanding to a whole other level. 

No I'm not ready to equip characters free of my autobiographical baggage. 

I’m still figuring out my own story.

I like non fiction anyway.

So I will try and forget “audience” (although I’m pretty sure that was included in some clever acronym about writing in jr high. ) and just explore.

I'll try and stop myself from thinking this blog has to be a complete and chronological journal of our family life (oh how I envy you organized souls who can keep things so systematic, when my brain's approach is always so messy!)

Maybe this ramblings belong in a  scribbler somewhere, but much to my mother's dismay my penmanship just isn't what it use to be.

Just writing.

Little jogs. Training. Feeling my breath deepen and my echoing pulse, telling me I'm getting stronger. Little by little. No race. No destination. Just running to run.

Writing to write. It feels good.

PS by the way, Ben’s gonna give me Wednesdays.