The Beginning

The Beginning

I get by with a little help from my friends.
—John Lennon and Paul McCartney

You hear writers complain about how solitary writing is, how isolated they feel, even as they pray for time alone to ‘write.’ That quiet room is a double–edged sword when words won’t come. A grand desire we fear, too, because there are no excuses there. Only the fact you’re not writing.



Here’s two quite empty hours, honey. What you going to do with it?



From experience, I know I never get enough. Of the two hours or work done. And that quiet can be deafening. Incessant as a September house fly. The whirring fan noise at the end of summer that you finally switch off and your ears sigh.



Summer’s done in. My ears, too.



You hear writers complain how agonizing writing can be. That all you have to do is open a vein, sit in a chair until blood beads across your forehead, pull up memories better left alone. Non-writers rarely understand why we do it. And they’re right, if only we could help it. Most of us wouldn’t put ourselves through it either, except-we love what we do. How can you explain that to someone who doesn’t write? Well, you can’t. It’s like explaining golf. If the person with the lowest score wins, I never can figure out why to begin in the first place.



So writers get together with other writers. They have workshops, conferences and critic groups. They whine and commiserate. That’s how they survive. They grab hold of one another’s arm and help each other up one little step. Again and again.



I had that too, until a few years ago. I had a group I managed to meet with once a month. I had a friend I talked to regularly or at least e-mailed once a week. We supported each other. Gave each other pep talks and cheerleading rah, rah rahs. Then circumstances changed as my mother aged, then developed age-related breast cancer. I stopped going to meetings so I could shuttle her to the store, to the doctors, to lunch, out of the house. I still had my small block of writing time though. That was most important.





And I kept in touch with my friend, needing the feedback from another writer. I needed that encouragement and support. Needed the inspiration.



It’s been over four years. My ninety-two year old mother is still doing well, God bless her. I wouldn’t wish anything else. The time spent with her has been rewarding and rich, but of course more time-intensive.



My friend’s circumstances have changed, too. She is busy with an aging parent, too, and a retired husband. We get in touch rarely now. And of course, it isn’t the same. We’ve lost the threads. We haven’t the time or consistency of knowing the detail of each other’s writing life. Though she has been there in hours of great need, and there have been those, as I was diagnosed with a kidney disease just this year, I have been absent another writer’s shoulder or I should say, arm, for too long.



My writing has suffered this year. No way around that, but even worse, I’ve lost my writer’s support and I feel that just as keenly.



It came to me one sleepless night. I have to be the thing I need, even if it’s just for me. I know there must be other lost writers, floundering writers that need a voice out there saying, you can do it. Don’t give up. No matter what. DON’T GIVE UP. Save yourself. Write anyway. If nothing else. Save yourself.



Let me tell you how I got through that one. You tell me how you got through that one. All I needed was just one someone, just some common ordinary writer, rarely published who’ll grab an arm, help me take one more step. Don’t you, too?



How can I be the thing I need? I thought I’ll start this blog.