Everywhere, she says.
And it’s true, Gentle Reader. I compose everywhere: in the car, the shower, those ten minutes before I fall asleep, when my students are peer editing. I am constantly in motion about The Sequel that today, when I was watching a movie, I had An Idea.
Unfortunately, I was in a theater, and This Humble Author takes the No Texting rules very seriously. Therefore, without pen and paper, and with only an iPhone to compose on, I could not jot down my thoughts.
That, of course, meant that I’ll be damned if I can remember them now.
I have been at this writing game long enough to know that either the thought will come back, or something better will take its place. It’s not gone; it may be locked in my subconscious, but it’s not gone. It might be overwritten, or it might be developed later, but it reminded me of a few cardinal writer rules:
1) Always carry a pen.
2) Always carry paper.
Even in this digital age, and perhaps especially in this digital age, one cannot fully rely on the technological revolution in key moments. If I had been a little less Lawful Good, or if I had been a better English Major, then I might still have that idea.
But we compose constantly, do we not, Friends? This blog, for example, I have been writing in my head since I started cooking dinner an hour ago. During the commercials for Young Justice, I thought about this blog piece, and how I wanted to write about loss, my loss, the loss of a writer and her work.
The thought of writing and loss takes a further spiral when one thinks about the vulnerability of one’s work, out there, in the cold, unloved, perhaps, or forlorn. So I leave you all tonight with the words of Mrs. Anne Bradstreet who, better than any of us ever could, spoke the truest words about one’s book that ever were spoken.
“The Author to Her Book”
By Anne Bradstreet
Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did’st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
The visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun cloth, i’ th’ house I find.
In this array, ‘mongst vulgars may’st thou roam.
In critic’s hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.
Like what you’ve read? Please visit my website at The Life and Times of the Postmodern Bluestocking.
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