I read an interview with Marilynne Robinson, author of Housekeeping and Gilead (which I've read) and the new novel Home (which I haven't read--anyone have thoughts on it?). It was in The Paris Review, fall 2008, and I recommend it for admirable insights on science/religion, solitude, writing life, etc. She also cleverly articulated a few things I've been thinking about:
Thing 1. When asked, "What led you to start writing essays?" she answered, "To change my own mind."
Although I didn't realize it, I think this is why I wrote an essay on polygamy, which is still looking for a home, but which I'm rather fond of. Completely changed my mind about the institution of plural marriage. Not so as I'm looking for a sister-wife, but so I have a clear empathy (pity?) for my ancestors who passed through it. Seems a good place to begin: start from a thing you want to have your mind changed about, plow ahead. Writing changes my mind anyway, might as well go in with that goal in mind.
Thing 2. This one, I hope, stands on its own: speaking of Freud who says it's best to have 'no sensation at all,' to remove ourselves from emotion, Robinson argues, "you are depriving yourself if you do not experience what humankind has experienced, including doubt and sorrow. We experience pain and difficulty as failure instead of saying, I will pass throught his, everyone I have ever admired has passed through this, music has come out of this, literature has come out of it. We should think of our humanity as a privilege" (58).
Makes me wonder: Why do we pull in, stay in bed, if this is a univeral experience, the thing that makes us part of humanity? Why, instead, does pain/depression/sorrow feel so isolating? Like we're the only ones on earth with heartache.
Reminds me of something Henry B Eyring said, which I always misquote, so I won't even try. He says if we treat everyone like their hearts are breaking, we'll be right most of the time. Sam loves that. When people say bad stuff about Mormons, he tells them that one of us said that. And if one of us said that, then we can't be as bad as they say.
But we're so forgetful. So disgracefully forgetful of the universality of our own pain, as well as that of others. We're human.
4 comments:
I'm so so so happy that you're writing a writing blog—and that I get to read it!
I love writing on my writing blog; for some reason, writing about writing makes me want to write.
And seriously, this post brought little tears to my eyes. Thanks.
It does feel isolating. Why is that? I'm ashamed of my sorrow, of my pain, of my weakness. During Sunday school 2 weeks ago when I broke down and was sobbing like a baby, the only thing I could think of was how to hide it:how to do it silently. A brave brave sister behind me moved up to my row and literally held me together in her arms until I was in control again. I haven't been on the receiving end of meaningful service like that in years. But my instinct was to hide.
Brings me a lot of pleasure to read your writing.
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