The Impulse to Write

Every year at this time, I have the urge to write. Usually what will happen in that regard is I'll begin a journal whose first entry is something like, "Every year at this time, I have the urge to write."

I then spend a few pages on general introspection before boring myself to the point of giving up on my journal until the next holiday season.

So here I am again. Only this time I'm blogging. It will be interesting to see whether or not having an immediate audience (presumably) will change the pattern. Will I write a few of these entries before petering out as I always do? Or will this become the kind of exciting interaction that I'm told blogs can be?

I guess we'll find out. Together.

I carry around some guilt about my writing. Years ago, teachers began identifying me as a "budding writer," first in high school, where I wrote a couple of articles for the school paper, and wowed the faculty with a modern version of Hamlet called "To Suffer the Slings and Arrows." Ittook place in Waco, Texas where I apparently believed the oil industry was located. (The Montagues and Capulets were now oil barons, in my retelling.) There was some talk of trying to mount a production of it, but mercifully that never came to pass. Still, though, it set something in motion in my mind, and I began to wonder what it would be like to be a "writer."

Aside from the teachers mentioned above, I'd be silly not to mention my parents, as well -- both writers in their own right. My father was a copywriter in advertising, and my mother wrote poems throughout her life.

Once I got to Syracuse, I discovered the writers who were teaching and studying there at the time: Raymond Carver, who would be my literary idol, Tess Gallagher, Douglas Unger, Jay McInerney, and Tobias Wolff, who became a mentor and friend. As a young writer, there really was no better place to be in the early to mid-1980's, and I do think now, as I look back, that I took full advantage. Thanks to my association with these people, I got to meet Edward Albee, Bobbie Ann Mason, and Richard Ford, among others.

I wrote a few short stories while at Syracuse, most of them awful, I'm sure. There were a couple that were well received by people whose opinion I valued, one of which was published in the university's literary magazine. I had enough "success" to continue writing as an expatriate living in Madrid, Spain, where I taught English classes, sat and journal-wrote in the beautiful cafes of that city, and met other self-proclaimed expatriate writers with whom I shared my work and whose work I read and carefully critiqued.

In the midst of all this excitement my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. My heart was broken when my mother died, but I had no way of knowing (let alone expressing) that at age 25. In retrospect, the heartbreak came from all that we'd miss experiencing together. In November of 1988, however, all it was was the feeling of a carnival sledge hammer slamming into the center of my chest. Repeatedly.

It was the act of writing about the loss that eventually got me back on track and enthusiastic about life. I wrote a short story called "The Favorite Nurse" which told of the death of a woman from multiple points of view -- those of her husband, her two sons, and the nurse who watches over her as she dies. People told me they were moved by the story, but I remember being embarrassed by having turned something so personal into something so "literary." I also wrote my first longer piece about this time in my life, and I believe it was called "Family Matters," although this has faded into obscurity now.

And now here I am, a few lifetimes removed from 1988, finding I still have things to say. But I am aware of this new medium -- that this is a blog post, and, as such, is running on a bit long. I know I began with the mention of feeling guilty about my writing, and I promise to get to that. For now, though, I'll stop here, and continue on another day...