On writing (again)

Writing has always held a particular spell over me. As a career, it seems illustrious and venerated (although I know the reality is quite different!) and writers…Well writers! They seemed to me the pinnacle of wisdom, empathy and profundity. So while I may have daydreamed about writing, I could never really see myself as a writer; it felt so out of reach.

Much of that mystique remains. I am still in awe of anyone who publishes a book, even finishes a manuscript. I am full of admiration for those who can keep blogs ticking away consistently (case in point here) or plug away at their poetry - one of the most vulnerable and difficult modes of writing – with determination and purpose. Of course, I recognise that all writers have moments – days, weeks, even months – of racking self-doubt, creative stasis, and, like anyone undertaking a creative endeavour, are subject to the ever-present demands of ‘regular’ life: work, parenting, household management, and so on. I don’t yet believe I can draft a whole novel or put together a collection of poems (I haven’t seen the proof yet), but three things that have occurred over the past few years have prompted a small shift in my perception of writing as a career and as a worthwhile pursuit: I wrote an 80 000 word PhD, became a parent, and my Dad passed away.

Allow me to connect these three events and make clear how they have re-wired some of my old thinking patterns about writing. The first one is simple: it proves that I can produce a text of requisite length that is divided into sections and follows a logical structure. Ok, I had a lot of help, but the fact remains; I wrote the thing. The second event of becoming a parent (which actually happened co-currently with the writing of the PhD), prompted me to radically reconsider my life’s direction and purpose. This has expressed itself in two, seemingly disparate, ways. I have professionally retrained and got my myself a job in the library sector and I have a new sense of urgency about writing.  

Writing has always felt like a calling, but the self-belief required to execute it was entirely absent. I would dabble, date poets and musicians in order to remain adjacent to the ‘writing life,’ but could never muster the courage to put anything out into the world. This, I now know, was a protective strategy to shield myself from criticism and potential failure, two things which seemed monumentally frightening to me, and so I didn’t take the risk. But when you have children and you think about the example you wish to set them, and how you hope they will value themselves enough to put their dreams at the forefront of their life plans, it becomes quite a simple matter; a case of putting your money where your mouth is. Though things that are simple are rarely easy, and while the way is clear, the path itself remains a minefield littered with all the usual obstacles – self-doubt is ever-present, as is the fear of exposure, then there is also the issue of time and energy, which become even more pressing when you are a parent.

It’s funny how the events of both life and death can sharpen the mind. For it was also Dad’s death four years ago that similarly prompted me to reevaluate the way I was living. Loss does that. It brings mortality closer and the possibility that you may, if you’re not careful, miss your chance altogether. Now is the time to create the life you want. There is no later.

My Grandmother as a young woman (second from left), with friends. This was a study I made while doing my Honours degree in painting, for which I drew on a collection of photos from Margaret’s life.

All of which brings me to what I am writing about now, which, as it happens, centres around a kind of loss. When I was two, my maternal grandmother passed away. Apart from her, the only other living grandparent I had was my Dad’s Dad, and he lived a six hour drive away. While I obviously couldn’t conceive of it at the time, the loss of my Grandma seems to have shaped my life to a significant degree and there doesn’t seem to me – at this point in my life - to be a more compelling subject to write about. And so, I have begun, doing some piecemeal research into her life and where she lived and worked, the Catholic school and attached church in the Sydney suburb of Marrickville where she grew up and eventually married before moving to the country, and asking my mother more questions. Research shows that we are genetically shaped by at least three generations of our ancestors, so it stands to reason that this woman is part of me, and in order to understand myself, I feel I need to understand her. One day this curiosity might extend to my mother’s father and my Dad’s parents (both my maternal grandfather and paternal grandmother died young), but for now, it is Margaret’s life that interests me. I feel I am a bit like her, that I share some of her struggles, and even – though I am not a superstitious person – that in some ways I am echoing the pattern of her life.

This is why I have returned to the blog. Perhaps, at least for now, my focus should be on simply establishing a writing practice, something I do (semi) regularly, even if what I write varies considerably. This gives me the freedom to gather more research on the side and plot some rough ideas, but it removes the pressure to write a story and only a story. In addition, I have returned to poetry, something I have always written privately. Here, I can explore other, more personal issues in a more direct way. This also feels important. I may not produce anything that resembles the layered literary historical novel-memoir that I envisage but something has to result from the act of writing itself, and whatever form it takes, it will be a result, and that is perhaps all I need to focus on for now.