Witness to the Impulse

I don't know if you had a chance to read my post on Segullah, but it turned out to be sort of an interesting experience for me.  Overall, I've been overwhelmed by the warm response.  People said the kindest things about my writing, the thoughts about my marriage, etc.  Maybe it's just because it's all about, well, me, but the comment section of that post seems pretty fascinating; it's perhaps a better read than the post itself.  (And if you've ever wanted to hear me talk sort of frankly about why I decided to marry Sam, I respond to a few comments with something along those lines.)  So aside from those nice nice comments from people, there were also a few comments I expected, which were some people disturbed I had chosen to marry outside the church.  Like I said, I expected those comments, and when the first one came in, I wasn't as bothered as I expected to be.  A few folks ralied to my defense, and I felt like I knew what to say, and I felt sort of like, "Whew, crisis averted." 

But then another comment came in, this one shorter, more pointed.  I'm tempted to copy and paste it here, but instead I'll summarize that it said my guest post was so sad because according to my own beliefs, my beautiful marriage won't last.  Let me say first that I don't agree, that this isn't my belief, that I've had some precious spiritual confirmation that my marriage won't be torn away from me on the other side (and I don't even think that's exact doctrine anyway, but okay).  This in no way diminishes how wonderful and important temple marriage is, but, well, see, here I go defending myself again.  This is hard to explain.  But the point is, the comment upset me.  Even thinking about it now makes me want to tear my hair and spit nails.  And not because I think this person is right, but that the response itself, the fact that it's possible, terrifies me.

You see, I'm writing a book.  I don't know if I've said that so clearly here, but I am.  And it's precisely about this, about dating and deciding to marry Sam.  I mean, it's about other stuff, too, but it's about that.  A love story.  A coming of age love story, is what I'll say when I try to sell it.  And the thing that trips me up when I try to write it, the thing that utterly paralyzes me, the thing that can stall me for several weeks of wordlessness, is responses like that one, or even the thought of potential responses like that one.  I tried to patiently explain to this person where I was coming from, but he/she just responded again today making it pretty clear that they didn't get it, didn't see what I meant, and maybe didn't want to.  Oh gosh, now I'm just worried you're reading this post and agreeing with this person, which you totally can; it's completely legal to agree with this person, just don't tell me about it, okay?  I can't take it.  And the point of this post isn't whether or not I agree, it's what happened after; it's about writing.  Moving on.

So I read this person's comment right as I was leaving my office, and I was just devastated.  I walked along Arlington St towards the T, feeling like I would weep, feeling vulnerable and terrified.  And it occured to me, wait, I CHOSE this; I submitted my post.  No one made me talk about this very personal aspect of my life.  And then it occured to, yeah, wait, I don't have to.  I don't HAVE to do this.  I don't HAVE to write this book, or if I do, I don't have to try and publish it.  This is MY business, no one else's, and maybe it's just not worth it to be that vulnerable. 

Pause.  Rewind to several months ago to when I had a similar thought.  Sam and I were driving around town, and it was raining, and we were talking about Sam's book.  This was back in the dark dark days of my last job, and I hadn't managed to write anything in months and months.  I was listening to Sam talk about his book, telling him what I think, and he was finding my opinion useful and the thought came into my head, "Huh.  Maybe the point of me going to school wasn't to be a writer myself.  Maybe I went to school so I could be useful to Sam.  Maybe he's the writer and I'm the writer-helper."  Immediately, with barely a beat to consider this possibility, I burst into tears.   Poor Sam, driving along thinking we're having this intellectual conversation, and all the sudden my own brain makes me sob.  I took my reaction to be a no: I ain't the writer-helper.  I mean, I am, but I'm also meant to write.  To write my own stuff.  It's in me, somewhere, even if I couldn't find it at the moment.

Fast-forward back to last week, walking to the T, thinking that maybe I didn't have to write my book.  Same response as in the car.  I mean, I didn't burst into tears, but the deepest, deeepest part of me knew that I actually didn't have a choice.  This is my JOB.  God gave me my experiences and the ability to write about them because He wanted me to tell about them, and choosing not to do so in order to protect myself from idiot opinions was beyond unacceptable.  It simply wouldn't do. 

This is a long post, and maybe you don't care, but for me, this is the story of me turning into a writer.  Not just someone who writes, but someone who MUST write, for whom it's an obligation, a spiritual and intellectual obligation.  I don't know what will happen with it; I'm not saying I'll get wildly successful with it. That voice that compels me doesn't say anything about success.  It just says I have to make this thing exist that doesn't exist now.

There's a passage in Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet that I've always liked, and always wanted to identify with, but never really felt.  And now I do.  And it's both lovely and terrifying.  I'll post the quote here.

"You ask whether your verses are any good. You ask me. You have asked others before this. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are upset when certain editors reject your work. Now (since you have said you want my advice) I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing. You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you - no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple 'I must,' then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse."                                                      
                                                                                   --Ranier Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, letter 1