The Writer Who Lost Her Way
By Tabi Lawson
As I start this post, I am exceptionally aware of the time. This is written in the writer’s sanctuary—the local coffee shop. With a latte and a laptop, I feel like I’ve arrived someplace real, but the truth is, I’m lost.
I’ve lost my way, more than once.
Melodrama isn’t my wheelhouse, so let me explain. I have degrees in English, Business, and soon one in Creative Writing. I have written grant proposals, policies and procedures, poetry, and fiction. But this issue of time is important. As I write, I check the clock. My next meeting starts in twenty-seven minutes. How much can I really write in that time? More importantly, how can I create within those limitations?
In a way, this blog post is testing that boundary in my brain. I am writing creative non-fiction, a story about my life. However, what I love isn’t so raw or contemporary. My poetry and fiction try to capture moments of joy and hope in the lives of fictional characters. Hope, in my humble opinion, is only truly observed from the perspective of adversity. A woman who overcame the challenges of pre-civil rights protections, a man who rebuilt his life after incarceration, or a child who expects good things in their future when their home life was challenging.
Ignore those diplomatic expressions. Read between the lines and get in the trenches with these characters. Then look up and see that there is potential, despite all the crap, for real joy. That’s what I love to write.
So, where’s my joy? Where’s my hope? I want to say it’s being crushed slowly by the nine-to-five grind, but I said no melodrama. Besides, the truth is that I love my job. I write eloquent words to people with the money and influence so that those still in the trenches, doing the hard jobs, get the support they need. Let’s face it, “Write about what you know” is good advice for a reason. I’ve known lots of those trench people and while I don’t write about any of them specifically, I know that the work I do has the potential to unlock doors.
On the other hand, I want to write poetry about flowers and that doesn’t pay the bills. So, here I am. Fifteen minutes from the next meeting, with notes about board meetings in my laptop pocket rather than chapbooks full of my poetry. Life is full of these kinds of trade-offs, and my biggest problem is, I never learned to balance them. I throw myself, heart first, into whatever I’m doing. To hell with the whimsy and light that I want to chase.
That is why I am lost. We need balance. We need to pay the bills, work for the good of those around us, and occasionally be able to get dirty. Society isn’t set up for that.
“Stay in your lane” is another one of those phrases of advice that is concrete for a reason. Here I am swerving all over from one end of the writing spectrum to the other.
I will close with this: I am lost, but maybe that lostness is my new trench to work out of. If you know me, you will see the dirt not fully washed off before pulling my suit coat on. Let it be my hope that people will see my gritty fingernails and know I have found the way to be me.
