A writer’s lessons from keeping a diary

I’ve been rereading journals I wrote almost 40 years ago that still have relevance. I had attended a writing workshop at Wellspring, a former retreat center in Philo, CA. The property had the Navarro River passing through it, as well as several rustic but delightful cabins for guests. For me, the focus on writing was important, but my main reason for being there was the exposure to nature. I was enjoying my time at this Wellspring workshop and being immersed for the weekend in nature.

While I was reading in the Wellspring library, another woman from the workshop walked in and took a book on dreams that she held up for me to see, Creative Dreaming by Patricia Garfield. Since dreaming has been such an important part of my life since my twenties, I was curious to see another dreamer choose such a book. I thought that reading it would introduce a new element into her life, chaos and who knows what.

But I also was realizing that I hadn’t applied myself persistently enough with the writing. I’d expected to be a star without all the work. A quote by Norman Mailer explained my predicament: “It’s at least as hard to learn to write a story as to play the piano.” The tremendous time and practice involved in becoming an accomplished pianist is similar to what it takes to be a good writer. I’m too much of a dabbler, I’m afraid, in all the arts.

Whether it’s poetry or fiction, I don’t give myself enough time to write a full draft. In poetry, I often have a false beginning, so I don’t push past it far enough to discover the real poem. I’m sure this is true in fiction. I’m too easily satisfied. In a way, it’s similar to hiking. Until I met my friend Alan and began going out on longer walks and into new territory, I thought I was a pretty seasoned hiker, and I rested in that delusion. But I’m not.

I’ve discovered that I must allow myself some false starts, terrible beginnings, to loosen the machinery that finally spits out poems. I started out to write a “nice” poem about Wellspring and ended up with something totally different about a fish that needs food and starving humans whom the fish won’t feed. Can I trust these excursions?

Before leaving the Wellspring library, I found a book of journal entries by contemporary women writers. Gail Godwin’s offering included a description of her avoiding writing that could have been me speaking. She claimed she didn’t have the courage to write, to say what she needed to say, afraid to let it out. Yet she wants to be able to articulate her perceptions and feelings so that others may be able to share in them. Me, too. But I had no idea where or how to begin. I was absolutely blank. And wished to remain so.

Now, almost 40 years later, I’m delighted that I didn’t pursue this early wish. I wouldn’t have published four novels, three poetry collections, one hybrid memoir, and numerous short stories and essays.