Why I Write, Part 2: Fiction

I've always loved stories. I loved reading as soon as I learned how; I wrote my first stories when I was five or six years old. I would write and illustrate my own books, populating them with numerous characters and drawing the illustrations and completing them by stapling all the papers together. As I grew older, both the stories I read and the ones I wrote grew longer. Some of my best childhood memories are of moving around the country with Laura Ingalls Wilder, exploring the Mississippi (and avoiding getting caught) with Huck Finn, and enjoying all the quirks and oddities of humanity with Anne of Green Gables and Emily of New Moon. I remember reflecting on Laura's way of dealing with mean girls, Emily's struggles to please her family, and Huck's wrestling with his own conceptions of race and those that his authorities were proclaiming as truth.

These memories reflect why I like to write fiction: 1) I am greedy for new experiences and 2) For me and many people, fiction is a powerful way to learn about the world and work out problems.

I honestly get bored with the sameness of me, the sameness of my life. I love to meet different people, travel to new places, and learn about things I've never experienced. I never had a sister, so I am curious to know what that would be like. I came from a happy, stable family, so I wonder how my life would be different if I had come from an unhappy family. I grew up in the West; I have no idea what it's like to live on the East Coast. Whenever I hear about anyone's problems, I always wonder, "How would I react? What would I do?" Sometimes I get frustrated with my own personality. I have weaknesses and shortcomings, and it's fun to imagine that I am someone different. Sure, if I had a different personality I would have other weaknesses. But at least when I invent a whole new personality, I can take a break from mine for a while.

And humans! Human beings are endlessly fascinating to me. Every single person ever born has been unique, yet we share so many similar traits. Myers-Briggs can break most people down into sixteen basic personality types, yet no two people are exactly the same. Humans have weaknesses that turn out to be strengths, a tendency to self-destruct, and blindnesses about themselves that are somehow obvious to everyone else.

It's this endless curiosity that leads me to read and eventually, to write. When I want new experiences, I can read, but sometimes my mind begins exploring questions about people and experiences before I think to look for a particular book. That's where stories come from, and once they're inside, I have to write them out.

Also, writing stories enables me to work out problems, both ones feared or imagined and ones experienced, in a meaningful way. I have a hard time talking about my feelings, and the straightforward answer to an issue, conflict, or difficult experience can often satisfy my mind, but not always my heart. And when I work out something intellectually without really working it out in my heart, eventually I will once again struggle with the problem.

The most clarity comes when I explore problems or conflicts through fiction. Approaching a problem through a fictional world gives me enough distance to be a little more objective, yet living through the characters keeps it close enough to my heart that when I have finished writing, I feel a peace and understanding that won't come simply through a rational process.

These new experiences and methods of problem-solving make writing fiction a joy for me. It's a difficult joy, one that only come after a lot of staring at a blank page and what seems to be wasted time imagining paths that never work out in the story. But I think that the most lasting and deep joys only come through difficulties, so it's worth the time and energy.

That's why I write fiction.

Why I Write: Part 1

I'm not really sure how many installments it's going to take to explain why I like to write so much. I know there will be at least one more post about why I write fiction, and another one about writing nonfiction. Clearly planning is not my forte as a blogger. But after you read today's post, I hope you will understand why I'm not sure how long it will take to explain why I like to write.

Here's why I write. 

My brain feels scattered, and writing is my way of organizing all my mental objects. Thoughts that that are crowding around in my mind move too fast and are too tangled and interconnected for me to ever make sense of them; they exist as a collection of images, feelings, words, memories, and information. They are not arranged linearly or pictorially or in categories. As far as I can tell, they are not arranged at all, and try as I might, I cannot organize them by just sitting around and thinking. 

This means that processing information, or processing my thoughts and feelings, is difficult for me. So, I write to process. Otherwise, all those thoughts are lying around in pieces, never quite connecting and forming a unified whole. Unlike linear and logical people, I have no innate mental schema for organizing thoughts. I have one friend who only wrote one draft of every paper she wrote in college (and she got good grades). That’s right: she could formulate an argument and come to a conclusion all in one draft, writing her paper from start to finish, from introduction to logical conclusion. I, however, cannot tell a story from beginning to end. My brain doesn’t work that way. When I start writing, I have some idea of what I'll include and where I'm going, but it's never complete. I have to edit and reorganize as I go.

Here’s how I picture it: Some people's brains are like a new 64-pack of crayons, with each crayon of a particular color representing a complete idea and its sub-ideas. These people's thoughts are neatly separated, whole entities, still in their fresh wrappers, and sorted by color from lightest to darkest. These are the people who are logical and linear; they have administrative and organizational gifts. When they encounter new information, it's often easy for them to know where that new information fits in. Simple! Just find the crayons of most similar color and make a space for the new crayon in between.

On the other hand, my mind is like a 64-pack where all of the crayons have been broken into multiple pieces. In fact, the pack itself was destroyed and thrown away long ago, so now all the crayons are kept in a big jumble in a plastic bowl, and there are no wrappers to speak of. If two pieces of the same color happen to be touching, it’s only by coincidence. When thoughts get long and complicated, there's no way I can find any kind of conclusion, because I don't know where all the pieces of that crayon are. Throw in new information, and it just sits in the bowl on top of the pile.

Writing for me is like sorting the big bowl of crayons according to color. I don’t pick through the crayons and try to find every single piece of red all at once, moving on to every single piece of blue, pink, etc. Writing is the process of getting all the crayons out of the bowl and sorting through them so I can put like colors together. It allows me to lay everything out at once that seems to be even remotely related, then select the truly relevant details and thoughts. I can piece them together and see what kind of whole they form (putting the same color pieces together to make a crayon), and I can throw the irrelevant pieces (the other colors) back in the bowl. When I write, it puts the words, images, feelings, memories outside of me and allows me to organize them.

This is my brain. This is why I need to write. 

Someone Prayed for Me

Monday morning when I woke up, I turned off the alarm on my phone and instantly went to Facebook, something that I've found helps me wake up mentally and actually get out of bed, instead of just going back to sleep. And I found out that someone was praying for me.

I don't know this woman very well. I know her through Facebook updates; she goes to our church; I had taught her daughter in a small Spanish class I did for a homeschool co-op a couple years ago. But she had tagged me in her status update, saying that she had woken up early and was praying for me and a few other people who have been hurt by some recent events.

It was humbling and, of course, encouraging. I felt so grateful that while I've been feeling very alone in my struggles, someone was praying for me. This made me stop and pray for her family as well.

Then I started thinking about the other people for whom she was praying, and I prayed for them too. Then, I remembered some other friends who were going through difficult times or who were about to do something out of the ordinary, so I prayed for them too. A few other people came into my mind, so I prayed for them too.

Then I started thinking about the nature of prayer, and how much we need it, and how little I do it. I thought about how merciful God is to me, and how He saved me, and how much He and His Son sacrificed to save me. I thought about the nature of God.

And all this before breakfast!

I cannot pray and contemplate God for long without feeling peace come over me. It makes me forget the little troubles and feel grateful for what I have. It reminds me that I don't have to be stressed about controlling all the little details in my life, because Someone who loves me with perfect wisdom is controlling them for me. I start thinking about how I can love others, instead of how I can get them to love me.

God worked through her prayers. The morning was wonderful because a woman stopped and prayed for me, and let me know she was praying for me. This made me more determined to stop and pray for others, and let them know about it as well. I truly thank Him for her.

Having a Baby (the Second Time Around)

A little over two months ago, little baby Kaitlyn was born. Having our second daughter was very different for me from when the first was born (in a good way), and I wanted to share my experience....

The second time around, the wonder of holding your baby for the first time is greater, because not only are you thrilled by the present, but you also have tasted the joy of some of the wonderful moments to come. You know that even in difficult or painful moments, it will be worth it for this little human.

The second time around, you know that you CAN get your baby dressed without breaking her, even with that wobbly little head and the iron grip needed to stretch out her arms and legs.

The second time around, instead of staying awake the entire first night because you are convinced your baby will stop breathing if you dare to not be conscious of her for even a second, you remember that her next breath comes from God, not from your willpower and attention. You even take baby into your hospital bed with you and let her sleep in the crook of your arm (in spite of all the warnings you've heard against the hazards of co-sleeping), because you know that both of you will sleep better together.

The second time around, when you get home from the hospital and break down in a tearful panic, thinking to yourself, "Who keeps letting me come home with tiny helpless people?" you don't succumb fully to the terror, because you know that you are exhausted and hormonal and that things will probably be okay.

The second time around, you let yourself sleep when the baby sleeps, even though you're not getting anything done. After all, last time the world didn't stop when you slept and didn't wash any dishes, and your husband or mom is watching the toddler. Sanity is more important than accomplishment!

The second time around, you are not shocked at the amount of exhaustion you feel or surprised by the lack of sleep. You are simply exhausted, but it's okay because you know that A), you'll get used to functioning even while tired and B), someday you'll get to sleep again.

The second time around, you have to make more of an effort to treasure all the time spent holding your baby, because your toddler also needs your love and attention. But you make that effort, even when it means sacrificing your own time, because in three months you will look at your sweet chubby baby and wonder, "Where did my newborn go?"

This Will Not Last

Alexandra and I spend so much time together that there are moments when it feels like being toddler mommy to her is all I will ever do. Sometimes this feeling comes with delight, and other times it comes with despair. But there were a few times this week when the impermanence of my current reality struck me.

1) Alexandra was outgrowing her toddler shoes, so we got a new pair. These new shoes are so noticeably bigger than her first pair of "real" shoes that I can't help but be astounded at how much she's grown in such a short period of time. When I look at those new shoes, I realize that change and growth are an inevitable part of my life with her. Physically she is quite different from six months ago, and incredibly different from a year ago, and these changes will keep happening. She is not going to be my little girl forever.

2) I also notice changes as she becomes more expressive of her personality and desires. When she was younger, happiness was wherever Mommy was. This week, she got to spend several hours with each set of grandparents, and at the end of those times, the announcement that we were leaving their houses caused brief tears. She recovered fairly quickly, but it's a simple reminder that this stage of life is so impermanent. Right now she occasionally prefers the fun and undivided attention she gets at her grandparents' houses to cuddling with mommy (something that was unthinkable only a few months ago!). Later on, she will sometimes prefer toys, hobbies, and friends to me; mostly likely she will one day move out and start her own life, maybe getting married and forming a new family.

I can't know what the future holds for our family, but if all goes well, if all goes as we usually expect life to go, then this time of being mommy to some very dependent human beings will be over before I know it. I am so glad when God reminds me of the brevity of this stage.

It reminds me to really enjoy this time, because someday I will miss it.