I like what I’m doing right now, sitting outside at a little glass table on the deck just on the edge of the sunshine but guarded by shade and breeze on what is probably going to be the hottest day of the month: writing. I write something pretty much every day. Sometimes it’s agonizing because I can’t think of anything to write or because I’m avoiding writing something because I know how much work it entails or because I want it to be really good but I’m so afraid it won’t be. Usually it’s just a process I go through for a couple of hours every day. Much of what I write is just plain garbage that I don’t really want anyone to read, though I seldom throw much away. I catch myself making glaring errors that as an English teacher were always my pet peeves—things like apostrophizing its when I shouldn’t or homophomic mix ups like their and there. Those still make me cringe in others’ writing, so they drive me over the edge when I catch myself doing them.
I love taking my handwritten drafts to the word
processor and watching every word. Sometimes I strike words completely, other
times I replace them with something more precise or vague, depending on my purpose.
In some cases, I write speeches or sermons that actually get delivered. Those
pieces will be drafted several times, always with my ear to the words and their
flow. It has to sound better than its appearance. With letters I just do a
quick read over and send it on to whom I wish to share. I almost always want to
change something in a poem every time I reread it.
I view my writing as a challenge like a puzzle. I
just keep working on it until I get it right. But unlike a puzzle, there is
never one right answer. Every draft has something different to say about the
same subject and I can feel like five or six different people at once. But in
the end, the writing is just me. I’m human and we’re all so incredibly
complicated. So this is my writing offered in love, my gift.
