Five Reasons for Writing

For three weeks already, I reached the end of the week, like a tired mouse. I am cranky and irritable. All I want to do is climb into bed, but I know I live for getting this done. I can't go to sleep let alone enjoy a Friday night without finishing the last book writing items.

As it was in Israel, for the last seventeen years, it was so easier to say that I was a writer when I wrote down my thoughts in my journal. A few times, I had some good moments like I was trying to get close to something; but in retrospect, I was completing venting. Now I am much more cautious when I use that word.... what word, 'oh yea, vent...'


Lately, I've had a real need to vent: I received two rejections today: one from the Post - Gazette who declined using my column "From Pittsburgh to Israel." It actually was my first crack at column writing. I was humbled by the experience but when he said that I had some interesting insights, I said well, it's his loss. Why would anyone in fact want to read an immigrant's adjustment process after living on a kibbutz for 12 years, serving as an officer for three, and studying for one then another degree? (obviously not in that order)


Then I had a rejection regarding my first children's story "One Bridge, Two Hands." Like many first pieces, I was anxious to simply let it fly to the world. The result? An editor over at Kar-Ben (a trade publisher for Jewish materials, imprint of Lerner)mentioned my word choice was "off" but what she really meant, was that the story was probably not holding itself together. But this story was unique: it was situated on a kibbutz. I have never used the word 'kibbutz' in any of my writings. is that a gentle sign of acculturation? Go figure.




Sometimes I feel like I'm not holding myself together. Yesterday, was the epitome. Here I am, sitting in my three year old son's room among the puzzle pieces, lego blocks, bedding and my books, trying to create my own writing space by hopefully give my voice some sense of intent. With all that said, the timing just came out right as a faithful blogger who believes in my writing endeavors, tagged me for Reasons why I write. At 11pm yesterday, I pushed my back against the wall away from my son's kicking legs. There are those reasons that Deb mentions from G's" Cottage which are way up there. I'll just add to the list that both Julia Cameron in The Right to Write and I seem to share. Okay, I admit it. It's my first tag.


1. Those lovely red marks...in eight grade... the ones that said 'very nice' or, 'good work' I was a ball of fire, I wanted to be understood. Nobody seemed to recognize what I had to say. Nobody. So I wrote awful seventeen year old stuff but that was the beginning of believing that I have something to say.

2. Writing fills a void and gives back a voice. Mom told me never to enter the arts. Perhaps she didn't want me to struggle like she did. Look, what she ended up with: no recognition, no pension, just a 24 hour caretaker for her Alzheimer's. While this doesn't mean that I am ready to make money off of it, writing is one of those outlets that come to me more naturally than understanding how a blog works.

3. Writing helps me connect to myself. I spend hours in front of a computer screen all day. It's a luxury most mothers don't have - just to write. And then, just out of the blue, I'll have a flashback. A ton of them. Like that. I'll remember the drink I had when I was at Grandmother's house in Far Rockaway and the oily smell of her pumps in 1985. I have a very keen memory.

4. Writing gives me a sense of belonging. When I begin to realize that I claim word, I claim my space. When I read my children's story: "One Bridge, Two Hands," I suddenly felt liberated I allowed myself to write about a kibbutz. Of course, I would not have been able to start the process of claiming my words, (and sanity) if my writing mentor did encourage me to explore all the sensations. I love the line: "It's all in your head. Just get it out."

5. Writing gives me a chance to stop and realize that the flowers aren't exactly rosy, but they can be.That is the life of people. I can easily lift characters off from life. Believe me. My short lived life has been too colorful. Way too colorful. {I can't believe I wake up every morning to a concrete skilled nurse facility outside my window}

I have learned from blood, sweat and tears not to do this: I set myself up for failure. There is nothing worse than thinking you have the worse life.. but I learn to embrace the people who I never could understand, had trouble accepting. I guess one can call it developing a sense of compassion.

Thanks to Deb for tagging me. Find out more about my writing endeavors and what kind of writing project am I doing over at my writing blog.