Writing

I am dreaming of writing again. Dreaming again; not writing again.

I did write a novel once. I wrote sporadically for five years. I would set aside a block of time - six weeks one year, 4 weeks another. For the first three weeks of each session I would try and try and fret and pace and finally get totally frantic. And then finally it would come in one huge blast. I would think the scenes, hear the characters talk, and what was in my head came out my fingers onto the typewriter.

I thought the thoughts of my main character, during those writing moments. Disconcerting. Complete empathy. My self faded away and my focus was complete. And then, with the completion of whatever 50 page section I was working on, it would screech to a halt and stop. Done. Nothing until my next block of time, until the next year.

And then I finished it, proofread it, sent it out, and never looked back. The agent knew it would be a "hard sell;" knew I should revisit it, reimagine it. Fred Busch said I should be true to my vision and how dare anyone tell me it should be the way I wrote it. But I think I knew in my heart that what I had written was basically a first draft. It was too intense, too painful, both to be read by others, or rewritten by me. I had imagined what I would be like as a different kind of woman doctor who happened to have the same medical problem that killed my mother. I went there, I did that, and I didn't want to do it again.

That's not to say there wasn't anything good about the book. Editors wrote nice things as they rejected it for publication. Friends also said they like it. I never sat down and read again myself.

But that character isn't dead in my mind. And I've mapped out her extended family, going back to the nineteenth century. A distant ancestor was nurse to a blind man; she knew all the herbal medicines there were. A grandfather was a country doctor who adopted all the unwanted children he delivered. A cousin lives on a Vermont farm. Her daughter is fifteen (and has been for the last several years, since I conceived her) and has issues with another distant relative who builds a house on her favorite piece of land. And the character of the first book could appear in this second book, or maybe even the third, which is about a medical student who had worked with the first woman doctor. Or maybe there is only one book and they are all in it.

But now there is no book, except in my head. I've waited for that pressured rush to appear, that drive to write that even I can't resist. But it hasn't happened. I teach creative writing, but that doesn't prime the writing pump. Part of me suspects I'm busying myself with teaching so I don't actually have to do any writing. I've been thinking about Montessori schools, thinking about developing a writing program in the new medical school, getting an MFA, teaching literature in hospitals, revising course readings in literature and medicine, writing articles about teaching creative writing, preparing presentations for a conference. Perhaps there is a faint reason to expect some paltry income from some of these things. But really, aren't these just busy work? Are these really my life's work?

During my bleakest hours I think about writing my novel. I don't dream about teaching another course. I don't grieve if I forget to revise a course section or can't figure out the next reading. But I am upset when I read over a scene from my book and can't figure out where it should go next. And when I experiment with point of view and realize I could write it from any perspective but they all have problems. And when I can't decide where the book even starts, although I have an idea of where it ends.

Right this minute I feel better. At least I wrote something. No, it isn't the novel But now the novel feels more real. And writing about it at least helps be believe that it is a real thing, that maybe it will be something I might hold in my hand. That maybe it is about these characters and about me. If it is they who exist then I might disappear again, be unselfconscious, and simply flow. And that would be wonderful.

silk flower arrangements

Flowers and Medicine and Stuff















I got my fill of crazies today. Actually the three hundred pound orange haired screaming cussing drug seeking former prostitute pretty much ruined my day. All my other patients were great, but they kind of pale in comparison with her.

Anyway, it is nice to imagine escaping to the basement and my flowers. I have six storage bins of silk flowers waiting for me. I have baskets hanging from the ceiling, vases on the shelves, foam, wires, leaves, all I need to make as many arrangements as I could ever want. Great feeling of comfort and escape. Wonder if there's any demand out there for flower arranging creative writing teaching family practitioner psychiatrists.




The other thing I imagine is working on the novel I'm thinking of in my head. There is an old lady in it with a huge flower garden; maybe she'll do some flower arranging as well. By the time I get home from medicine, part time though it is, my head is so scattered it is all I can do to get myself to bed (or write on the blog). I tell myself that some day I will get to the writing. Some day I may believe that writing matters. Some day, "some day" may actually come.

In the meantime, I have those flowers in the basement....

creative space

Man how time flies. Thought I wrote the last posting a few days ago, not last year. Work has restarted, tennis classes for junior, diet for me (yeah!), and work and more work and all the little things I have to fit in amidst the regular work.

And it is all ok. Elderly dad is creaking along. He has his routines and they comfort him. I send him flowers and those comfort him, too. Hubby's family has its ups and downs, but I connected with his daughters (by making them cry - I seem to have that knack) and things are up and down there all at once.

And I'm toying with the idea of being a housecall doctor. I don't know - three full time days a week with the possibility of benefits mainly seeing elderly housebound patients (like my dad?!). I'd have to pretend to be an expert at cardiology and diabetes and heart failure and all that. I guess I could brush up on it easy enough. My main plus for the patients is in collaborative care - working with them and their families to better define their goals and to fine tune things without the illusion of curing anything. Just don't want to hurt anybody or mess anything up. Guess I'll explore it.

Psychiatry is going ok. Some weeks, especially before Christmas, I felt especially incompetent. Nobody seemed to be getting better. But yesterday everybody was better and today they were half better. That was more like it. Wish I could get paid to give hugs and encouragement and not feel like I actually have to fix anything. coaching, maybe, rather than doctoring.

I've also been thinking more about an idea that L and I have tossed around. To have a woman's creativity center where women can go to rent quiet space for writing, research, study, arts, crafts, as well as a center where women can collaborate, network, or just hang out and relax. Rooms to work in could be rented by the hour, day, or month. A receptionist would take all messages, and renters could check them periodically, but would not be interrupted except for emergencies. A lounge would provide coffee, tea, and comfy chairs as well as meeting space for readings, talks, support groups, even therapy sessions.

I wonder if there are state or federal arts or humanities grants that might provide some startup funds for such an enterprise. I also wonder if writer's spaces in the larger cities could provide some information about how they started, fees they charge, services and facilities that they provide and maintain. Quiet space for writing, thinking, etc, is important, but hard to come by and even harder to create. It may be easier to provide white noise to block out sound than to soundproof a building that has normal construction. I wonder how on earth anyone who is busy can find time to work on such a project. I wonder how anyone who is busy can find uncluttered space if such a facility does not exist.

I was talking about this idea with a woman therapist colleague of mine, pondering the issue of gender separation. She suggested that men seem to have less difficulty working at home; they do not feel as pressured to meet everyone else's needs. Women tend to feel they have to get family work attended to and have a harder time focusing on their work in the face of others' needs. She felt there was no need to apologise for a womens only facility.

So what now? Any ideas out there?