Apologia and, Potentially, Prelude

by Bethany MacAlester

November 12, 2007 — Published in On Writing

Reading has always been escapism for me. Writing was supposed to be an extension of that; no more moping around, wishing my favorite authors were more prolific, or fussing that the current book didn’t live up to my expectations. Instead, through writing, I found that I could tailor the stories I entered to suit my shifting moods.

At least, that was the idea when I was nine, when I decided that I wanted to be a Writer.

At the time, it actually did work that way. I never finished anything, mind — I just fiddled with characters and set-ups for a few pages at a time, sometimes adding in illustrations for maximum effect. It was one step removed from daydreaming, and as uncomplicated as spending time with any other story. I particularly enjoyed naming the members of my own Fellowship, who were tasked with finding a powerful gem. I never made it past the cover of another piece, but relished every detail of the showy title, my name beneath it, and a sassy drawing of myself with a whip and fedora. I was Indiana Beth.

A case of tunnel vision

These days, I can find any excuse not to write. I know that plenty of genuine authors say the same — that they putter around, decide that the cobwebs urgently require attention or that toilet-scrubbing can’t wait another moment. Everyone does it. I, however, am the best. Had I leapt in post-college and dedicated myself to writing full time, well, I do believe I’d be a bona fide starving artist by now. Instead, all that remains of Indiana Beth, the little girl who decided to be a Writer, is a logophile who loses herself in books, gets inspired on occasion, and almost invariably shies away from the gaping maw of a blank page. I still doodle in the margins of my notebooks, though, when I should be paying close attention to what some knowledgeable person has to say. My fingers still twitch with the muscle memory of sketching out my most frivolous, best-loved thoughts.

Over the last several years — which have been my grad school and get-a-job years — I’ve been occupied with making a safe space for myself. The idea is to create a cocoon of stability, worry-free, in which I can settle down, let the outside world go, and focus on what matters (writing, visiting family, writing, cooking for my loved ones, writing, and whiling away the day in my backyard garden). I’m making progress; I have a day job that I don’t hate, complete with my share of time off, and I co-rent a townhouse with my friendly neighborhood husband. I’ve come to realize, though, that the worry-free, perfect state of mind I’m waiting for isn’t likely to materialize. Ever. The part of me that squeaks at each blank page, “But I’m not ready yet!” may continue to do so indefinitely. Perhaps it’s time I started squeaking back.

Taking note of the periphery

In spite of myself, I have made attempts to break through the like-to-like magnetic repulsion that keeps my fingers hovering above the keyboard or pen over paper, while the voices insist I’m not ready. I’ve taken on a character in my everyday life (journalist, undercover agent, or Time Lord) and looked at each detail of my day afresh, with alien eyes; I’ve written frivolously, and made things explode; I’ve co-written; and, naturally, I’ve pursued nearly anything other than writing in order to glean material. The bakery was fun for a while. Then there was the lab, with the centrifuge and the monstrous database. These days, I teach very small children. They provide me with droves of new experiences. They also eat my brain.

I’ve found that the grandiose, over-arching life plan excuse for avoidance is even more effective than the lure of a good bathroom cleansing; it lingers on, long after the germs have died. There’s always another goal to be met before one’s world is satisfactorily fixed and static, and no longer needs one’s full attention. Maybe once I [own a house/pay off all my debts/have become a botanical expert in service of my classroom] I’ll finally be able to relax and get something done. It’s powerful to suppose that a total clearing away of obligations (fear my machete!) is possible.

There are more basic deterrents, of course. When words are in place and visible, flapping in the chill air, they’re subject to the opinions of others. My grandmother once found a partial, early story of mine — penciled in a cloth-bound journal that I planned to sneak onto the shelf of a bookstore one day — and read it without permission. She very much enjoyed it, and told my mother so, who informed me. I was mortified. I hadn’t written it with her in mind, and it seemed unthinkable that she would have seen it. I never touched the story again. It wasn’t mine anymore. “If you love something, set it free,” but, well, I’m just coming around to appreciating my ideas. Perhaps, in time, I’ll love them enough to let them go.

Look — shiny!

Now the question becomes: Do I even have something to say anymore? Here in my (theoretically) safe, steady, unshakable space, what is there to write about? The teen poetry years are long past; there’s no more syrupy angst to keep me scribbling. I have no assignments or deadlines these days. The moment I decided to take the adult approach to life, and acquire a salary before turning my attention to more enjoyable pursuits, I set aside writing like a well-hugged blankie. I put it on the coffee table with a vase on top; fine to look at, interesting to consider, but not useful or vital in the same way. I became a doer in place of the fully spaced-out, lost-in-her-head thinker, and forgot why I felt I had a unique perspective on the world. Well. The sand has run through that particular hour, and it’s time to flip the glass over. I’m itching to tell stories again.

I’m beginning to put the paranoia into perspective. No matter what else is traipsing through my head, I know that I want to be able to write. So I have come to the point where I sit. I sit, touch an ebb of dense, sweet coffee to my tongue, close my eyes and taste. I roll a pen between the tips of my thumb and middle finger, I look at the blank page in front of me…

And I daydream.

Illustration by Anatole Upart.

Bethany MacAlester

Beth MacAlester spins yarns in both literal and figurative ways. She knits the former sort, and seeks to make folks chuckle with the latter. She finds joy in food, gardening, sketching, reading, and Matthew.

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