I’m teaching a class about writing right now. An interesting class for anybody who has written anything. Currently, as words fall from me onto the page, my students are writing about their writing.
We read the book James by Percivial Everett together. James is a deconstruction of Huck Finn by Mark Twain. The book is told from Jim’s perspective. I think the book is wild and wonderful. Funny and dark. Really good read.
For a writing assignment in our class – inspired by James – I had students think of a text to rewrite from the perspective of another character. The genre was up to them. A novel, sure. Poetry, songs, video games. Sky was the limit. They wrote all sorts of wild and wonderful things. Funny and dark things. Really good reads.
And now here they are writing about their writing process. Doing a journal entry. Writing about writing. And I’m doing it with them.
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I’ve been a productive a writer. That doesn’t mean I’ve been successful, just productive. All sorts of academic articles. A bunch of books. Humor pieces. Satire. Enough unpublished poetry to fill a library. Writing has always been my thing, even if it is not really a thing that has brought me fame, fortune, or even an audience. I’m no Percival Everett. No Mark Twain, either.
There’s a degree to which, I’m sure, my writing has been fueled by anxiety. By the existential dread that comes from being alive and being aware that I’m alive. Energy that comes, in part, from a traumatic childhood. A traumatic adolescence. A traumatic adulthood. Being alive is a lot. I’m joking, kind of. I’ve experienced lots of pain. I’m sure you’ve experienced lots of pain too. Being alive is painful. For whatever reason, my pain feels really present right now. And working that pain and anxiety out through writing has always been part of my process. Part of my jam.
As might be clear to the dutiful reader of this blog, I’ve hit a rough patch. A moment of transformation. I was putting together a book of poetry and sending out pitches for a satirical book I wrote with my friend Ben this fall. I was working on something that felt like it was becoming a novel. And then I was anxious. Overwhelmed by new responsibilities with my job, my schedule, and my life. And then this funny thing happened. I stopped putting together my book of poetry. Stopped sending out pitches. Stopped working on the academic article I was writing. Stopped toying with my next novel. Full stop. Was this part of a breakdown? Maybe. Life felt unmanageable and I stopped writing.
I didn’t totally stop. These blogs kept coming. A short poem here and there. Still, I really let myself slow down as a writer. Slow down as an everything else, too.
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I’m learning something about myself in this rough patch. I’ve had an enormous amount of creative energy during most of my life. And I have channelled that energy into all sorts of different creative projects. I’ve made lots of things during my life. Lots of those things have involved writing. I’ve written lots of words.
There’s an anxious energy that has fueled so much of my creative activity. In some ways, I can’t help but to think that I have spent much of my life trying to outrun some of the big emotions connected with my more painful experiences. Especially as a kid. Especially in relationship with my mother. R.I.P, Mom, but you’re still here. In the words of Stephen Malkmus – another creative and anxious soul – you can never quarantine the past. I’ve spent a long time trying to narrate my past. Trying to run from my past. Trying to control my past. Trying to manage my past. No longer, friend. I can’t contain my energy anymore. My anxiety. Something is spilling forth from my body right now and there’s nothing I can do but let it come. And learn to be in new relationship with what has always been here.
Not sure that any of this makes sense, but it feels like so much of my writing has been an attempt to connect and move with some powerful forces inside and outside of me. And I’ve taken some sort of needed break the past few months. But it is silly to think that writing will stop forever. It seems to be a part of how I move through this world. No, I’m not Percival Everett or Mark Twain. But I am Sam Tanner. So that’s what I’ll continue to be.
Samuel Jaye Tanner 