Writer-In-Progress

For all you philosophizers/writers, here’s a question I think on often, and in the last two weeks of my life, have thought on almost hourly:

How do non-writing people get through life?

More specifically, how do they think and function without a pen and paper? I sometimes try to fathom myself lost on a desert island (especially when the weather here in Ohio sucks something awful) and that old question of …what would you take and who would you take?

After the fun of whatever current singer or movie star I’m in the mood for would wear off, I’d still be sitting beside my notebook with an endless supply of fountain pens. I just can’t imagine NOT writing. My mind doesn’t wrap around that notion.

And here’s why I’m thinking about it so much.

Last week one of my oldest friends passed away at the age of 31. He’d have been 32 the day after his funeral, but for some reason he wasn’t supposed to hit that mark. Now, Jamie and I haven’t seen each other since we were probably 12 years old, but as our parents spent a lot of time together in our early years, so too did we, with my sister and his brother. Jamie had a laugh that you could not resist laughing with, no matter how hard you tried. He also had more freckles than the country sky has stars and the biggest, silliest smile to make you feel happy even when he was up to his rotten tricks of getting us kids into trouble. (I was the oldest and usually willingly took the brunt).

Though Jamie and I hadn’t spoken in so long, I wondered why his death hit me so hard. This is where the non-writer thoughts came in. In order to understand my feelings, I journaled half a notebook, wrote two poems and a story and am still trying to answer questions I can’t understand. How do non-writers get through these times? And what is it about these deep, emotional moments of our lives that just fill our minds with words and our hands with energy?

Jamie’s death was an interesting contradiction to Fatima’s death, however. Fatima was one of my students a few years ago in middle school. She was curious, extremely intelligent but at times unmotivated, with a silly grin and a huge heart for anyone smaller than her. She couldn’t read (English or Somali) when she came to me, and I figured half the problem was her dyslexia–undiagnosed, of course. With that taken care of, she still had trouble reading. I managed to get her glasses, which she faithfully wore only to my class. In the hallway I had to always, always remind Fatima that if she couldn’t see, she couldn’t read. She would always smile at me, pull out her glasses, and magnify the eyes I knew loved me for being someone who loved her back.

I left the classroom a few years ago, and Fatima moved on to another school. Just this morning as I was leaving for school, I caught Fatima’s photo on the morning television news. I didn’t notice her blinding smile from last year’s (her freshman year) school photo or the totalled car and the word “fatality” in tiny type in the background of her photo. All I registered in my mind was that she wasn’t wearing her glasses.

And that’s all I’ve been able to think of all day every time I mention Fatima’s untimely death to teachers who shared the priviledge of educating Fatima her short time here. Her glasses.

But Fatima’s death has had the opposite effect on me from Jamie’s death. I can’t write. I tried pushing the pen against the paper today and only squeaked out three pages of fiction which I know don’t make sense. I couldn’t edit the article I wanted to send off for the Friday deadline to a major publication that would be a big break for me. I couldn’t do anything but sit and wish I’d hugged Fatima one more time instead of reminding her about her glasses.

And now I’m here. Even when I don’t think I can write or have the heart, I’m writing. See what I mean? How do non-writers get through the day?

Thanks for being in my life, Jamie and Fatima.

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