The Power of the Quill, An Origin Story
Welcome to the first post in the Champagne Thursday Series, my travel diary about transplanting from Southern California to Brooklyn, New York. As I am still in California and moving is tedious and boring, this blog is about my writing journey.
Since I can remember, I have been writing novels, scripts, short stories, plays, and songs. In our early years, my sister’s and I were like the March sisters in Little Women, always putting on wild theatricals. In our plays and musicals, I was the writer, director, and lead actress which is probably a reason why the three of us are no longer close. In truth, I wanted to be the protagonist Jo March. I admired her masculine (Gen Z forgive me) approach to womanhood- her strong will and sense of adventure. I felt a kinship to her political ideology, her rejection of tradition, and her bouts of rage, restlessness, and jealousy. But above all, I too wanted to be a writer. Louisa May Alcott was a writer when women were forbidden to be, and she was drawn to writing about the Macabre and the terrifying: vampires, witches, and werewolves. Later, a handsome Professor Bhaer, encourages Jo (loosely based on Alcott) to write what is, to this day, the most thrilling and provocative of all: gritty, emotional truth. More on this later.
Champagne Theory: Jo March would have been a Ravenclaw!
A Serious Writer: The Whistle Down Era
At 16 years old, I became, in my own mind, a serious writer. I published a blog, which in that particular Year of our Lord was a brand spanking new idea. My first blog was a Lady Whistledown type of social diary under a nom de plume. I wrote about my friends and enemies, and, as you can likely guess, my thinly veiled identity was eventually discovered. When one of my classmates and scorned crushes realized my identity he posted rape threats on my message board.
Quick Aside: Recently, I was offered a Rape Whistle to protect me from the perils of the Big Apple. When I politely declined, the woman asked me if I ever get scared. I replied no. That was Bravado, not candor. Guilt has followed ever since. Courage is not the absence of fear. Quite the opposite. Terror is the underbelly of Joy. Shy away from one and you lose double.
Ahhh, confession is a cozy quilt.
Back to the rape threats from the nice Christian young man....
I was ashamed, frightened, slightly titillated, as I was a virgin with sideburns and no prospects, and devastated because my father forced me to delete my blog permanently. Now that I am a parent, I understand his decision, but at the time, I shut myself in my bedroom and swore to live a reclusive life like Emily Dickinson.
In college, my newborn daughter in the crook of my arm, I wrote my first novel. Two more followed. Each time, there were waves of successes and failures. The most common setback being the feeling I was bringing shame and embarrassment to my family. That art was a frivolous pastime. That I was exposing too much of myself or others. My readers, especially my family, were anything but gentle.
For a few years, I took a break from my writing projects (although I was always scribbling), afraid of “the power of my own quill,” as Penelope Featherington says. I withdrew from most forms of vulnerable creativity. I threw myself into cake baking and decorating as my sole form of creative expression. But even as I filled my time with sugar and various pleasures of the world, my soul felt cooped up, shackled by the creativity I was smothering with frosting. During this time, I left organized religion and became a social media ghoul- skimming but never posting. Some go to a church building to find their purpose, and if that provides comfort, may ye be blessed by the old gods and the new. My soul never found rest in those walls. Similar to Louisa May Alcott, I fancy myself a transcendentalist. I have a reverence for spirituality, feel a connectivity to nature and humanity, but I honor my own intuition above any deity. Writing is my preferred spiritual practice.
How the Plague Unleashed the Bard within:
A familiar story to many, I reclaimed my writing practice during The Plague. But I picked up my quill with all the power therein the morning after my father died. For this, I think he might finally be proud of me. Where I am proud of myself is that I am finding the courage to let myself be known. The difference between the woman I was at 30 vs 40 is that I am listening to the voice inside of myself who craves to be seen confident that exposing myself will only increase my value. So: if you don’t want to see me, I suggest you avert your eyes.
Champagne Theory: Maggie O'Farrell's Hamnet is the best read on Shakespeare, the aftermath of Grief, and how to conjure magic during dark times.
Last weekend, My Bear and I were driving into Laguna Beach for the only socially acceptable form of self harm, a new tattoo. As we wound through the canyon, I admitted I was considering shelving the second draft of my novel in progress. I worried it was too close to me. He said similar words as Professor Bhaer:
Write from your life. Write from the depths of your soul. If you can find the courage, it will be the best manuscript you have ever written.
~Little Women
Perhaps both of these men are right (not a phrase you will read here very often, so do savor it, Bear): Writing about vampires and werewolves is a perfectly respectable pastime. But the most toothsome monsters you can conquer are the ones who tucked you in at bedtime with a story and a kiss. After all, a whistle will not save you from the loved ones you invited in…
This week, my Champagne Toast is to my own courage: May I write boldly, laugh loudly, and pack quickly. Brooklyn, darling, I can’t wait to see you again!
Follow our journey from California to Brooklyn, NY every other Thursday.
“Write what you know”