Monday, 15 August, 2022 – Elias did not post any pictures today. And we did not text or talk. He said he was working in the restaurant but was not sure it would go well, given the exacting, slightly imperious nature (my words) of the chefs. The sous chef thinks very highly of himself, apparently. In any case, I don’t know if we did not hear from him because he had a great day or a crummy day. I hope it was a good day.
What I noticed about myself, though, was a sort of reluctance to write today. After he said yesterday, with admittedly sort of a chuckle, that I had not gotten a lot of things correct in my posts, I felt let down. I mean, if this blog is just me writing and not getting it right, why am I doing it?
And that’s when I had to face something unpleasant about myself. Maybe not unpleasant but certainly not easy. That is, why am I writing? And writing every day, for crying out loud?
The answer is, because I want to. It is for me and I did not want to admit that. I thought if I told myself I was doing it for everyone else, or Elias and his sister, I would have the discipline to write. If I was writing because I like it and because it makes me feel creative and good, that was not enough. Yeah, well, I was wrong. And having Elias point out that I got a whole bunch of stuff incorrect was a good thing.
My niece, who writes every day, and is a disciplined writer herself, gave me some good advice. (I asked for it, before I showed this website to anyone but her.) She said that she thinks of her blogging as a sort of public diary and though she may be glad that other people read what she writes, at the end of the day, she writes for herself. She said, as kindly as she could muster, the truth is – and this is the thing that really stung – no one else cares about my writing as much as I do. Why did it sting? Because I would like to be read. I would like Elias, Annika, my friends and family to all say they liked what I wrote.
Ouch. That feels icky to admit.
Here’s the thing, though: I cannot write for anyone else. Even when I am writing a paper in grad school, or editing text in a proposal for work, as cornball as this sounds, I have to write to be true to myself, to my own satisfaction. If I don’t write for myself, the writing ends up being, without exception, total crap.
And yet, I shared this with Elias, and everyone else. Because I also do not want to write only for myself, either. Argh. Who knew this writing thing was so complicated?
Actually, several people knew. I have read several books about being a writer, the process of writing, and how hard it is to write anything really well. Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, Amy Tan’s Where the Past Begins: A Writer’s Memoir and Mary Karr’s The Art of Memoir are all excellent, whether you want to write or not. I am not sure I am any better at writing for having read their books but I am probably better at recognizing when I am full of shit, as I write. All three of them are really big on calling bullshit.
I have been sending letters to Elias and Annika every couple of weeks since they went away to college. When I tell anyone that I am doing that, they say, “Oh how nice for them.” But really, it is nice for me. I hope they like the letters but really, I write because I want to reach out and share something about myself and what is going on in my life. I guess it can be both: something I do for me, and something, I can hope, they like, too … and anyone else who reads these posts.
Tomorrow is normally a day off, but Elias said he volunteered to help in the greenhouse, so he may be working again.