Becca Rowan is a writer and the author of Life in General, a collection of essays about mid-life as experienced by an American woman in the 21st century. Becca loves creating connections by sharing stories on her popular blog.
Time was that when I called my mother on the telephone it took several attempts to get through because her phone was always busy. She was forever talking to someone - either my aunt or one of my cousins, or most likely, one of her many “lady friends” who lived in the neighborhood.
But I can’t remember the last time I got that annoying buzz of the busy signal when I placed a call to her phone number. And it isn’t because she has call waiting or that her phone goes directly to voice mail.
Dear Reader,
Until recently, I hadn’t written a real letter in at least 20 years. And when I say a "real letter,” you know I’m referring to the kind written in ink on pieces of paper, folded neatly and placed into an addressed envelope, and posted in a mailbox to wend its way to the recipient.
A couple of months ago, a fellow writer and I decided to engage in just such a written correspondence.
This entire week has been gloriously beautiful here in the Midwest, much more of a late summer feeling than an early fall, with warm sun bearing down and cloudless azure skies above. I haven’t felt called to decorate with fall flowers inside or out, although many of my neighbors have placed colorful pots of golden mums on their porches and decks, and hung fall foliage wreaths on their front doors.
Yesterday was a blissfully free day, and I gave in and spent the afternoon on my deck, feet up, books at hand. I left my phone inside the house so I wouldn’t be tempted by the internet, and spent over two hours reading, dozing, taking a few moments every now and then to gaze up and savor the full leafed green trees around me. There was a poignancy to the day, one of the few like it left to grace us as we barrel full speed ahead into fall and then winter. I was mindful of being poised on the edge of that change.
"The most important function my writing serves is to help me make sense of life in general - and my own in particular."
Those words are as true for me today as they were 10 years ago when I wrote them in the “about” page on my first blog. Writing things down in almost any format - from a hastily scribbled list or a soul searching journal entry to a carefully considered essay -writing clarifies my thinking, opens a channel for new ideas, and relieves anxiety and tension.
Because writing is often the midwife to new ways of thinking, or a working out of one’s feelings on the page, it’s most appreciated when one is in the midst of a particularly unsettling period of life.
So it begs the question: How does being happy with life in general play out in one’s writing? Does a writer need a pinch of angst as seasoning for the pot? Is being happy and content a deterrent to deeply expressive writing, the kind that connects emotionally with readers?
Think back for a moment to the kind of desk you had in elementary school - say second or third grade. Mine was square, with a grey metal tub-like bottom and a faux-wood laminate top that lifted up. I often used the top of my head to prop that lid open while I rummaged around inside the general clutter that collected there: folders and looseleaf notebooks and chewed up pencils and erasers and mimeographed work sheets.
And books.
