Why do you write?
What (or who) brings out your best work?
Have you ever thought about what influences you to sit your derrière in the chair and log those long hours?
We all have our reasons. Our short-term benefits and long-term motivations.
And sometimes our passion for expressing ourselves starts before we even knew we were paying attention.
Mom always had a paperback book in her purse. She was never rude enough to whip it out and zone out in front of my little sister and me in place of mother/daughter bonding time. But she did stick her nose in that book on lunch breaks, in line at the DMV, grocery, or doctor’s office. “I never want to get caught without something to read,” she’d say. I imagined the mini flashlight at the end of her keys gave her peace of mind, confidence she’d still be able to see small text in the case of elevator failure or, this being California, earthquake entrapment.
Dad wasn’t much different, although his reading obsession was more on the immediate info front. My sister Carol and I’d watch as he’d devour stacks of newspapers and heady magazine articles nightly after dinner, with Mom by his side. They’d be toe tapping to jazz or a classical arrangement, hot tea warming the atmosphere on the small wooden table between them. “The best cup of tea can’t compete with the worst cup of coffee,” Dad would say. Still, they were proud, self-proclaimed “teetotalers” and drank the heck out of every brand of Earl Gray or English Breakfast known to man.
In between sips, they’d politely interrupt each other’s revere to share snippets of whatever they couldn’t not share.
“Can you believe that?” Mom would say, after taking the floor.
“Unbelievable,” Dad would answer. “Listen to what I just read about such and such,” and off they’d go, traipsing down an alternate path. By the end of the night, they’d have several articles ripped out between them, people’s names scribbled on top, ready for copying and mailing. Mom’s books were marked with squares of scratch paper to remind her which section needed to be Xeroxed the next day at her office. During our Sunday morning brunches, Dad frequently read portions of his discoveries that related to the world’s religions. Those meals felt a bit like church to me; Dad our intellectually curious preacher teacher.
When Carol and I went off to the University of Southern California, Mom and Dad sent us care packages, filled with Xerox copies of clippings from their continued nightly marathon reading sessions. The handwriting on the oversized envelope was Mom’s, but Dad’s scrawl was sprinkled throughout.
“Check this out, honey! I hear it’s a great exhibit.” Dad was a sucker for the latest traveling art collection.
“Saving money for retirement. Good to know!” They were obviously hoping I’d get over spending their money every month and have enough left over for old age. Hmmm. That was going to take some time. As in, years.
“You never know when you’ll need this info! How to patch a tire on the highway!” God love him, but, seriously? Like I’d ever remember how to do that! Wasn’t that what boyfriends and Dad’s gas cards were for?
When Mom died, the care packages kept coming. Only now, the address labels were filled out in Dad’s penmanship. Carol and I couldn’t believe he kept it up. It both delighted and amused us to no end. When Dad died, five years later, a few of their closest friends would send us articles from time to time. We, in turn, would return the favor. Everyone missed their little notes and copies—love through snippets of information (is there a word for that?)—and couldn’t help themselves.
People talk about the lost art of handwritten thank you notes. What about the bygone practice of snail-mailing articles on Chinese paper folding?
My Ah-ha! of the week: Writing is often a solitary process, but I count myself enormously lucky to have been chosen for all sorts of partnerships in this creative process. And I have my parents to thank for it! (I can’t believe I’ve never before put two and two together to see the cause and effect here—especially since my writing collaborations always seem to involve piping hot mugs of tea!) My first book was a collaboration of sorts—a combo of interviews with successful people. Tea and carrot juice fueled the middle-of-the-night writing sessions that enabled me to be a fulltime mom during the day. My second? Co-authoring Rhonda Britten’s proposal on how she turned her fear into fearless living, centered around the loss of her parents. (Coincidence?) Oh, and did I mention Rhonda’s as FAMOUS for her very specific iced-tea ordering at L.A. eateries as she is for her Emmy-winning life coaching? (“Half passion fruit, half regular, no ice, no sweetener.”) My third book was writing for a blind cop who told great stories but couldn’t see the keyboard and wasn’t about to learn. (Bobby Smith, Ph.D is the only person I’ve ever heard of who got kicked out of blind school for refusing to use a cane! But was he a tea lover? Honestly, I don’t remember. But I drank gallons of the stuff while making our deadline.)
I could go on and on and on about the colorful cohorts I’ve had over the years, and the blast we’ve had co-creating. Today, I’m working on several books with smart, heartfelt, enormously talented partners. We have such fun, sending each other ideas (mostly now through the ethers), interrupting each other on the phone or in person to share the latest research, brainstorm, or brain fart, and encouraging each other to stay the course when we get tired, nervous (yes, that happens to every writer on deadline), or wayward on some ADD jag that leads to the dreaded Facebook or Google suck holes.
Like Mom and Dad, I’m never alone for long with my intellectual wanderings. There’s always someone to share them with. For me, working with a partner makes it all make sense. That’s what I saw as a kid and that’s what feels like home.
I’m forever grateful for the booktastic habits of my parents. I wonder if they had any idea.
My guess is they do now.
I’ll close with a quote by my friend, author Sandra Magsamen. I’m going to swap out her first two words “Good friends” for “Writing partners.” Here goes: “Writing partners are like bras: supportive, never leave you hanging, make you look good, and are always close to your heart.”
Thanks for giving me the opportunity to delve. I’d love to hear what memories this brings up for you! If you’d like to experience profound partnership at our upcoming Carmel writing retreat this March (our web guy is updating the page later this week), click here to get the gist.
Until then, happy co-creating!
Yours,
Linda
