{"id":14392,"date":"2020-06-01T00:00:39","date_gmt":"2020-06-01T04:00:39","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.mentordiscoverinspire.org\/2020\/06\/01\/refusal-of-the-writers-call\/"},"modified":"2021-04-25T16:55:46","modified_gmt":"2021-04-25T20:55:46","slug":"refusal-of-the-writers-call","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.mentordiscoverinspire.org\/refusal-of-the-writers-call\/","title":{"rendered":"Refusal of the Writer’s Call"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
Craig Jones\nColumnist<\/strong><\/pre>\n\n\n\n
My mom had dreams of being a published writer, and she always through the years referred to “The Writing,” rather than “My Writing.” <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I hadn’t thought of that until recently though it was there, hiding in plain sight. When she said she should, “You know, do something about ‘The Writing,’ ” it was almost always accompanied by a sort of sigh, a resignation, an eye rolling without an actual roll, a posture suggesting “The Writing” was a burden she kept carrying through the years, like an old dusty and moth-eaten chair she couldn’t get rid of. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
“I just can\u2019t bring myself to part with this old thing. It has sentimental value.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Of the fact she had, and has at ninety three, a writer’s heart and soul, there can be no doubt. She wrote, all the time, as our nine months of work prepping her house, my boyhood home, for sale bore mute testimony. She made notes about everything she deemed important on any scrap of material at hand, including paper plates written on in crayon. She read constantly and marked the hell out of books, took literature classes at the local college, and wrote profiles of fellow church members for the monthly newsletter. I found a short story she had started, a foray into fiction.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“The Writing” sounds now like a big bulky box or, as I said, an awkward and past-its-prime piece of furniture or chachkie someone is trying to wrestle up some narrow stairwell. Yup, once again, I am moving “The Writing,” Lugging it around making the same grimace. God help me, this is no longer a criticism, if it ever even was. Parents have personal shit their children know not of. I am just following whatever thin thread I can out of this cave into the light, in order to get fully aligned with my own magnetic north. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I worked hard to blame her for my own lack of ownership of the writer’s life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Maybe I was afraid of the same fate. Like Ray says in Field of Dreams, “I\u2019m afraid of that happening to me.” If his dad had dreams, he said, “He never did anything about them.” When I do say “my writing,” as in “I get up at four and do my writing,” I notice it still feels a little off somehow. I say “my writing” and notice it, like a tiny speed bump. Does it suggest a kind of ownership or lack thereof? My vs The, which is at a slight removal from ownership. It isn’t mine, it’s a disembodied and unattached “The.” A definite article rather than a possessive pronoun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The shadow of my mom is long in my life, in all particulars, whatever she did with “The Writing” long shadows are what this whole journey is about. The shadows are long from the night of the nude October trees on Second Street that I was trying to describe, in all my callow innocence, at age 14 while walking to a Boy Scout meeting. The desire has never left me. “The urge to convert experience into a group of words that are in a grammatical relation to one another is the most basic, ongoing impulse of my life,” as Jhumpa Lahiri<\/a> wrote of herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n