Writing a Newsletter is like Tuning a Guitar

some thoughts on the writing process

My writing process is a surprise. Sometimes sentences come while walking down the street. Other times an idea forms in the shower or a dark room or a lighthouse or a walk-in-closet. The thing about writing, that nobody says very much, is that you have to do a lot of waiting.

Juni likes when I read the book ‘Oh the Places You’ll Go’ because one time I told her that it makes me happy cry. So she likes to pick up the book and say, Is this going to make you happy cry? And then she giggles because she’s so good at remembering and remembering is one of the keys to good humor. One time she asked me which page makes me happy cry the most and so I flipped through the pages and I think it’s this page—the waiting page:

Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come,
or a plane to go or the mail to come,
or the rain to go or the phone to ring,
or the snow to snow or waiting around for a Yes or No
or waiting for their hair to grow.

Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night

or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.

Everyone is just waiting

…

A week ago I saw Adrianne Lenker in Eugene. If you’ve ever been to her concert, you know that she spends a lot of time tuning her guitar. I wish I wrote down the exact words she said, but she said something along the lines of this:

Adrianne: Tuning my guitar. Rebellion. 

Person in Audience: Why is that rebellion?

Adrianne: Maybe it’s really not. Actually, no, it really is. You want to know why? Because there’s so few things where you can see the process of something. Everyone gets to see finished products all the time, but nobody sees the process. But you guys have to watch me get from these notes to the next notes. You have to wait here with me. 

Maybe writing this newsletter is like tuning a guitar. This is how I get from one place to another.  

The process begins in my room while I dance alone. My hand brushes the dulcimer hanging on the wall and the chord matches the song. Later, the process is in the shower. I stand there dripping, long after the hot water is gone, because if I leave the words will also leave. At some point I head back to my room and I open up a blank document even though there are too many open tabs for me to feel safe. PTSD. I grew up with tiny aisles and towering boxes. I can’t stand clutter; I can’t write with clutter. Then I have to remind myself it’s okay to write, even if I get interrupted. I am scared of forgetting. Then I will see a ghost in my room. Probably. It knows that I know it’s there but it won’t do any harm. And then I melt into the rest of the process. I write.

I’ve learned that waiting is inevitable. Playing while waiting is the process.

Thank you to everyone who is reading The Hummus is Out. I have some ideas on how to expand this and where I want it to go. Of course, it will take on its own form in time. It has been difficult for me to put a pay wall on anything. Some of you are supporting this newsletter by paying $5 a month and I’m grateful for that. I’m also so grateful for every email response I receive. It is always a joy to get a response.