The Writing Life

Philadelphia

In third grade, a new girl came to Our Lady of Victory Academy and she became my best friend. Ellen and I shared lots of things: an Irish father, a love of basketball, and a love of writing. We would write notes in class and pass them while Sister Danette wasn't looking with little limericks. We thought we were very clever. Her father was the basketball coach at East High, frequent winner of the All State title, and all around terrific basketball team. Mr. Doyle was such fun. I can still remember walking down the street with him on cold Iowa winter days; Ellen on one side, me on the other. He was very tall, always funny and upbeat. He had the capacity to make me feel safe and happy. I didn't see Ellen much that summer because she spent most of the time with her grandmother in a neighboring state.

The following year, Ellen came to school for the first few months, but something seemed wrong. The nuns would whisper in the hallway when she and I passed by, and she didn't play dodge ball on the playground anymore. Then one day she just didn't show up at school. Finally, my parents told me. Ellen had leukemia. I went to see her a couple of times while she was at home with her large Irish family, looking very small, thin and pale in her twin bed.

Ellen died that year. I wrote a poem about her the night that she died. I didn't now what else to do. At the age of 11, emotional resources for loss are sort of limited. But somehow it comforted me. I showed the poem to my father before we went to the wake at OKeefe and Towne funeral home. He asked me if I would like to read it after the priest offered the prayers at the wake. " She'd like that, I'm sure," he said, his arm on my shoulder. I did. And it served, for me, as a way of saying goodbye.

Years later, I think of Ellen, the first person close to me that had ever died, often. And that poem. It was really the first time I had experienced the power of writing. The amazing, complex process that occurs when a writer begins to construct a story or a poem. It's a combination of intellect, emotion--and something totally unpredictable--the muses, a gift, luck, a third eye. I don't know. But I do know that it is what keeps me writing because often what I thought was the "story" isn't it at all. It's almost an exercise in Zen. The ( for me ) incredibly difficult task of just letting the writing be truthful to the voice and point of view you've chosen; then letting that voice go. And editing, editing, editing so that all of the cliches, anachronisms, and tempting pat strategies to move the story along don't taint its own "life".

I finished the course at Sarah Lawrence last week. And I finished my short story. The faculty working with me and the other terrific writers, urged me to submit it for publication. And I will. But the success for me was constructing a story that was complete, was vetted by a mentor who knows the craft, and that feeling of completion that is so satisfying.

This has been my summer of a bit of affirmation for my writing. An article I wrote for In Trust magazine, a journal for trustees of graduate schools ( www.InTrust.com ) received Honorable Mention which was a complete surprise. And, now, a story to finally submit? That's a good summer in my world.

The book that is at the top of this post is one that my great grandfather wrote in Cleveland, Ohio. James Lawrence was a Spiritualist, and prominent in Cleveland church circles at the time. He reportedly was very good at channeling both ordinary individuals and well respected leaders of his day. The book is an account of his conversations with these other worlds.

When I found and acquired the book several years ago ( an entire post in and of itself ), I was thrilled to see that one of my ancestors had been published--something I aspired to. OK, so it isn't exactly mainstream! But one can presume that he knew how to write. And how to get published.

So, on this sunny morning, the second day of summer 2009, I am reminded of Ellen and my first poem; and of my great grandfather and his book. And I thank them for their part in this journey toward writing down the stories of my life.
M.C.