The Writer’s Journey

McMurtry at Home-Photo by HUD

     Why do I stare at this computer screen?  Why is it empty?  This is hard, really hard.  I’ve been a writer all my life; this is different.  Words come, but they are not personal words.

     After visiting Larry McMurtry, a group of writers were asked to write personal essays. With copious notes, I began happily hacking away, clickety-clacking. My title, “Shaking Hands with a Legend.” McMurtry said that without reading, he could never write. When a teen, he sneaked to the barn to read, at track meets, anywhere.  My fingers flew across the keyboard.

     That evening, George Getschow, Writer in Residence, asked for volunteers. Wow! Theirs were personal, seriously personal. That word was just beginning to etch into my brain.  Later, in the Spur Hotel room, a Mexican sarapé for a valance and a couple of old books the only decor, doubt was overwhelming.

     Maybe some personal reflection will help.  Fingers flying: “Shaking Hands with a Legend # II”. Next day, the class read more personal experiences, amazingly introspective and meaningful. All excellent. Immobilized, afraid others would notice my red-faced solemnity, without reading I offered my six pages almost slight handedly, “Please let me know if it is salvageable,” still hoping for, “Of course, it is.”

     Personal doubt grew. Pedagogical history held me hostage. Finding time in a 5:30 am to 12:00 am day is like searching for water in the desert.  My expectation for this three week seminar was a virtual oasis. Get one article written and spring from there into a book over several years.

     Others read.  Courage failed.  McMurtry herds word.  Besides his own books, he’s leaving a legacy of four antiquarian bookstores, called Booked Up, in Archer City. I am the most prolific in the group.  I pen a plethora of words.  Man, do they need herding!  They are academia: analytic and formulaic.  My printer uses invisible ink, spits out blank pages. I can’t describe a tree…green…deeply green…intensely green? Have the years of writing easily read words robbed the rich vocabulary once mine? Words…still bland and lifeless.

     Getschow politely advises, “You’ve written a very precise report with extensive detail.”  Something else…I don’t know that word, but suspect strongly that the root is “regurgitate.” 

     Reflect! Fulfill this assignment and the longing inside to be better…“Shaking Hands with a Legend # III:”… Fingers don’t fly so fast. Holding my work to the mirror of others is increasingly debilitating.  My sentence…silence.

     I begin to wonder if Hud’s gentlemanly regard for me removes him from the arena of critic and colleague. Well, we move past that, “Sweetheart, what you have done is very good.  Just do something else for now.”

     “Oh, oh, oh!  Look Dick.  Look Jane. Hud does not think BJ can write.”  This is the greatest wound of all.  At least, he is honest.

     In pre-dawn, my mind wanders, and my heart hurts.  Where are those words?  Can they be retrieved? Are they gone forever, left in the wake of grading papers and meeting deadlines? My prison – years of assigned reading and pedagogical writing.

     McMurtry pays little attention to technique. When I mentioned his well developed personification, he replied, “If you say so.”  There will be far less emphasis on technique in my classroom.  Students must be free to roam the range of imagination unencumbered. Me too.

Epilogue: The article BJ wrote at the three week writing camp about her college BSU Director, Donnal Timmons, was published two months later. She exchanged full-time teaching last June for full-time collaborating with hubby, Hud, on their first book. She still teaches writing online with the University of Phoenix.