Bird by Bird

Thursday, 20 September 2007

I have not yet been able to begin.
I have tried several times to just start, but as I look at the blank screen, I know that nothing I type feels right.
It reminds me of being in school, and a paper is due the next day. I know what to include in the body of the report, I even know how to illustrate the conclusion, but I sit, and look at blank sheets of paper. All because simply, I do not know how to begin. You know what I'm talking about. Some call it writers block, but don't you have to at least be moving before blockage occurs? What do the proverbial “they” call it when you cannot even begin: writers stall at the go line?

Anne Lamott tells a story of her brother. He had a paper to write. The assignment was something to do with North American birds, and like a normal student, he waited until the night before to begin writing. With a panic rising in his chest, he turns to his father the writer, asking, pleading, hoping, I assume, for his dad to write the paper for him. But his dad offers simple advice, advice which later Anne borrows to title a book I love to turn to in my own moments of writers fuzz. Dad says simply, “son, take it bird by bird.”
My cousin emailed me the other day, well, in light of my proficient ability to procrastinate, it may actually have been a month ago…alas my brain wonders…
Anywho, my cousin excitedly messaged me that her English class had discussed an excerpt from said Lamott book, ma cousine remembering my winds of praise over the book during her past visit. Thus a spark of inspiration. Luckily, said spark lasted over a month - with me, staring at a blank sheet of paper trying still to figure out how to begin.

I have them, several little birds of ideas fluttering about in a spiral, waiting to be drawn upon with letters, paragraphs, grammar, syntax, rhythm, vocabulary, WORDS. And I just need to put them out there, bird by bird, topic by topic.
Yes, they are there, nesting in my spiral. Such snippets come and run circles around my imagination while I am trying to sleep, the time already ticking WAY past my bedtime. Better yet, they come while I am driving and cause serious road faux pas as I try to write (yes, write…writing and driving, I do not suggest) a quick word or phrase to re-spark that train of thought when I am in much safer writing conditions (sitting at a red light). Or my mind is moving so quickly between one idea and the next item on my to-do list, the next program plan for my youth, or the next song lyric, which reminds me of that sensational idea I had yesterday for a title, what was I going to say about it? hm…the spaghetti squash needs to be cooked tonight before I forget…did the dog just fart again, phew he reeks…now what was I just thinking…

Think my mental flashes are job hazards in and of themselves, just wait until I pull out my soap box. I think a major excuse for me not posting my little birds is that lurking soap box, graffitied with ideas and opinions like an old sea trunk plastered in travel stickers. It is true, each of my topics stand alone…with me perched at some point upon a box with a “now here is my issue with this situation…” This actually does scare me because I do not like sharing a strong opinion in any direction, except to those friends and family whom I trust will offer decent conversation rather than degradation. Really, I would rather not share some thoughts on a public blog site so every person’s mother’s uncle can read and think me ig-nant. And really, I do not mind you having your own opinion, it is just that I would really hate to tell you how wrong and ig-nant YOU are!
Just Kidding.

My birds are there, I hear them fluttering in my head. Often, though I sit, and words fail. Getting these birds into readable print proves difficult. But when they do light inside my spiral, I will gladly toss them on to you…and though I will try to keep the soap box under the nest, I cannot guarantee I will never stand tall when something really pulls at my feathers. Just allow me to my opinion, as I will allow you to yours.

So, do you grow weary of the bird-brained vignettes? I promise to quit chirping about it tomorrow, when the early bird finishes her worm.