(otherwise known as) Writing with Children and a Loud Home Underneath the Creative Process
by Julie Jordan Scott
I might have lost my mind this morning if I didn't have something to engage me with my words. Samuel was underfoot, being considerate of his sleeping sisters. I appreciated his devotion to his siblings but I was in great need of some writing time. It was a workday for me, even if it was a federal holiday for most everyone else. I had goals to reach and words to get on paper.
I took on the "if I can't beat 'em, enroll 'em" attitude and invited Samuel to engage in the process with me. He rang a bell for me while I wrote, each time the cue to write the main prompt onto the notebook page, "I wear aloneness like a cape" and when I was done I shared my words with Samuel.
He wondered, "Why did you say that 'cape' line over and over again?"
I smiled, "That was from you, ringing the bell."
He smiled and understood even this cryptic response. He was there for the writing. He impacted the righting. That was him. This was passion, the writing and his presence within my writing sanctuary.
You are welcome to join us now, too, in reading what we crafted, together.
I wear aloneness like a cape, one of those capes odd girls who thrive on being nerdy, different girls wear as a personal expression of, "I am nerd, hear me.... talk about Harry Potter, my favorite Comic books, and debate whose castle is better: Frankenstein's or Dracula's" nerd-dom. They thrive on being nerdy and different.
They embrace it.
I envy that conscious unself consciousness. I got slapped with that "Don't be nerdy," and "Don't be preppy" and "Don't be in the band, for God's sake" and "Don't join a sorority!" early in life. All these don'ts could be almost overwhelming if I let them.
The trick is to not choose to let any one of them overwhelm any of it.
I watch my pencil not fall silent. This surprises me.
Usually my pencil stops when I traipse into territory like this. Don't write about childhood, that is so 90's. Don't write about the dark and dreary, that will only attract more of a goth-vibe to your life. I keep moving my pencil. I notice my nose is cold in the same way my eyes lift to the clock in Mr. Seymour's English class when it gets so silent I suddenly notice the distinctive tick from the left side of the classroom.
I wear aloneness as a cape. Samuel takes the assignment of bell ringer to heart. Hank sniffs my shoes, perhaps crumbs from the chocolate coated donut that may have landed near my big toe. I seek aloneness now, to celebrate my birthday. The beginning of my fiftieth year, as I turn forty-nine and bid my forties good-bye.
I wear aloneness as a cape. Samuel rings the bell at the conclusion of an eating cycle. I see the sky is coated in grey, like Samuel's donut is coated in chocolate and my celebration this year is asking to be spent in alone-ness and my pencil is coated with fingerprints of people, long gone.
His fingers, Samuel's, trace the bell before he rings it. He gets up from the table. He fetches a glass of water. He puts his chocolate bounty in the cupboard. Samuel smells bleach, perhaps laundry soap leaving its fingerprints on my hand.
I wear aloneness like a cape. My timer is silent. I make a quick list for my alone-ness birthday. I think one friend: to witness and stay silent with me. One timer. Art projects. (Be more specific). Camera. Socks. Warm shoes, several pairs. Firewood. I know who I want to ask but am afraid, Re-entry brunch on the 30th.
A flock of birds make a spiral V. Synchronized flying, improv movement. I smile, inside and out. Samuel eats.
I wear aloneness like a cape. Samuel reluctantly rings the bell. I let my laughter speak. Crumbs cover my notebook.
I let them.
This is passion.
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