I realized, lying sleepless in bed tonight, that I need this blog. I need the outlet, need the discipline, need the humor, outrage, pathos and center writing helps me find in the worries, annoyances, oddities and joy that find me.
I was lying there, thinking, as we occasional insomniacs are wont to do, about a worrysome situation entirely (almost) of my own making, one which I must confront, one which will have temporarily unpleasant but (I hope) eventually resolved consequences, and I realized, to my horror, that I wish I could talk to my mother about this problem, but (at least, I feel) I can't. And I also realized that the reason I can't may just be that she never really, in any honest way, talked to me about the worries and traumas (not insubstantial) of her own life. That's not entirely her fault. There have been times between us where she tried to confide in me and, frankly, I didn't want to hear. I may literally have stuck my fingers in my ears and chanted, off-any-key, "lalalalala." And now, because I couldn't or wouldn't hear her, I feel I cannot trust her with my failings. And the kicker is, this is exactly, exactly, the issue I was discussing with (overpriced) (very smart) shrink on Monday.
I just needed to get that down, so I can remember it. Because, of course, writing, or any act of creativity, is also an act of remembering. Don't believe me? Read this fabulous book by Twyla Tharp, the dancer and choreographer. Now that I mention it, I think I need to read it again, along with this, How to Write, by Pulitzer Prize winner and generally erudite fellow Richard Rhodes. He'd hate my writing in this entry, by the way. It's sloppy. But that's ok, I am still learning.