This is the season to write and share our stories.
Every spring, I am reminded of a memorable phrase, said by our parish priest decades ago. It was during the week between Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday, circa 1988. I was about fourteen, and my mom and I had stopped by our church, where she was working at the time, to pick up something from her office. We bumped into our priest, Father D, who was rushing around and getting ready for the upcoming holy day. I remember Father D as a rare gem. He was a young “cool” priest, full of upbeat energy and fun. After a quick little exchange with us, he politely excused himself by exclaiming, “Gotta run, Easter’s in the Typewriter…!”
He was, of course, referring to the homily that he was in the middle of writing for Easter mass. He had taken a break… who knows why… Writer’s block? Bathroom break? Coffee run? I’m sure he returned and finished his sermon, as he did every week, as priests do. It’s their job to write something meaningful and share it with their congregation every week. How daunting!
As someone who has journaled my whole life, but rarely shares my writing with an audience, I am always impressed by people who regularly write content for the public. Preachers, speechwriters, authors, musicians… how do they trust the world with their ideas? There is SO much to think about. What do I have to say? How will it land? Will it be funny? Should it be funny? What if people don’t like it? What if I get something wrong? I don’t want to offend anyone. Am I getting my point across? Do I even have a point?
I can only recall about a dozen times in my life where I wrote something to share widely. I ran for student council in high school and I vaguely remember writing a speech during my campaign. I’m sure I optimistically promised my classmates a loosened dress code and free pizza on Fridays. (It was a simpler time back then.) I have also written a handful of speeches and presentations to give at important work events throughout my career. I remember some excruciating, sleepless nights, writing and rewriting, and crossing out, and ripping up copies, and starting over, and doing jumping jacks to get the juices flowing, while seeking out the perfect words, the flawless flow, to carefully craft whatever it was I needed to say.
I have written two eulogies for very close loved ones. These, strangely enough, came more easily than anything else I have written for others to hear. I truly believe that those who had died were somehow inexplicably helping me. I attribute the inspiration I felt creating these particular writings, to my immense love for, and history with, those individuals. Somehow the pressure of telling their stories at such an emotional moment added to my temporary eloquence. Even in grief, I was satisfied with how they turned out.
Those eulogies, written rather quickly, were in stark contrast to the wedding toasts I have been invited to give. These involved a different kind of pressure, because I typically had lots of time to think about them and to get input, so I felt they should be outstanding. Also, I loved the people involved so much, and I knew how important the day was to them, and most of them were recorded on video, and the Best Man was usually kinda’ cute… and… I was always single, and I digress… but could go on and on.
Writing for an audience is hard. It does not come naturally to me. On the contrary, my private writing has benefitted me immensely. Writing in my journal, ever since I was a young teen, has been my therapy, my brainstorming process, and my constant companion. In my diaries, which are always written, never typed, I can keep going until my hand hurts. I am honest and ruthless and sad and hilarious. I am free and fluid, and my thoughts often flow faster than my wrist can keep up with.
In a world of people who either process information internally or through external dialogue, I am definitely one of the former. I am a thinker. I look inward to understand thoughts, feelings and emotions. However, just thinking is rarely enough for me. I often don’t even know what I am feeling inside until I start writing and am sometimes surprised by what comes out onto the paper. Most of my A-ha! Moments have emerged as I was curled up on the couch, messy bun on top of my head, with my journal resting on a pillow on my lap… and the third finger of my right hand fully indented and calloused where the pen rested.
When I look back at the more-than-thirty notebooks I have filled throughout my life, I discover that I wrote most often when I was lonely, distressed, or struggling with a decision. I moved to Japan when I was twenty-one years old, to take a job teaching English. It was exciting and I felt very adventurous and mature, but it was also scary being so far from home. I did not speak Japanese, I felt culture shock, and I was extremely homesick during the early days.
I wrote more in my journals during my first three months in Japan than what I would typically write in a whole year. I came to rely on my journaling during that time, to rely on myself, to trust myself, to love myself. I am so grateful for that time, and that it happened when I was so young. That trust in my own accountability and friendship has served me well over the years.
Journal writing has also helped me remember past events. I have a notoriously inconsistent memory for things that happened decades ago (and occasionally for what happened last week.) But if I’ve written it in my journal, I can usually cast my memory back upon that time in my life. How wonderful is that?! If I re-read enough, I can even notice patterns. “Gee Monet, you seem to be at the same career crossroads as you were 6 years ago, and 12 years ago, and 18 years ago…” I also notice how consistently my family and friends have shown up for me, as I flip through the pages and look back at their advice during various chapters of my life.
This is an important point. I have always had an amazing community around me, sometimes living close and sometimes supporting from afar. However, there is something about taking all of that love and energy and advice, and writing it down, in a safe space, to process, that has helped keep me sane, and honest. It is really hard to lie to yourself in a private journal. There is no point. The truth always emerges. What a gift.
As I get older, I am becoming a bit more contemplative, more reflective, and am journal writing more than ever. I am discovering that I have many stories and quotes and memories to write about. There is also SO much going on in the world right now, to sort through and try to make sense of.
I have asked myself why Fr. D’s random statement has stuck with me for all these years. Easter’s in the Typewriter. Looking back through the lens of my own writing, I can relate. His draft was unfinished. It had potential. Anything was possible. His message could still go in many different directions. It could be meaningful to someone.
I don’t own a typewriter (although nostalgically, I sort of wish I did…) Regardless, like that homily so long ago, my own stories are unfinished, unwritten, still in the typewriter, with potential, perhaps meaningful to someone.
I wonder if I can learn to merge my effortless free-flowing journal writing with my challenging, struggle-to-find-each-word writing for an audience. I guess there is only one way to find out.
