The Writing Life Too

Overcast skies again this morning. I’ve been thinking about the whole idea of mentors lately, especially since the brouhaha over President Obama’s going-back-to-school talk to kids. I’ve rarely witnessed such crazy behavior as lately when the hate mongers like Glen Beck, Monika Crowley and their ilk keep voicing their consternation and comparing him to Hitler. And then there is Steve Anderson the pastor of the Baptist church in Arizona who has called for the president’s death. It would seem that if there is any morality in this organization this man should lose his job for his violent rhetoric. So I’ve been in one of my what-the-heck-is-this- country-coming-to-moods? And knew that if we elected a black president the shit would hit the fan and all the racists and haters would emerge. Meanwhile, Americans need to rise up and say enough is enough.

But I’m going to stop my rant and I want to quote something from Obama’s talk: "Every single one of you has something you're good at. Every single one of you has something to offer. And you have a responsibility to yourself to discover what that is. That's the opportunity an education can provide. Maybe you could be a good writer--maybe even good enough to write a book or articles in a newspaper--but you might not know it until you write a paper for your English class."

The speech goes on to list a host of professions after President Obama's tribute to writers: "innovator or an inventor," "Senator or a Supreme Court Justice," and finally, the traditional favorites, "doctor, or a teacher, or a police officer."
But did you notice that writers came first?

I wish, I wish when I was a girl that I had more mentors. Someone who noticed my passion, my talents, but mostly my doubts and I’m-not-good enoughs. I think my life would have been far different. I was thinking back to my years in a small northern town and my love of ice skating. I skated every day in winter. Sometimes twice a day. When it was twenty or thirty below and I couldn’t feel my toes and the sky was black and glimmering like a diamond field, because out on the ice you’re kind of free and wild and unsure all at once. I could skate backward, I could stay on my feet, I could skate fast, but I didn’t have a special aptitude for skating. I was just a sort of athletic kid who possessed fair balance—most of the time.

Often on returning home from school I’d hang out in the driveway at the side of the house and practice until dusk fell on those hard, freezing winter afternoons. And I practiced Olympic-type moves---balancing and swiveling on one foot sort of things. The driveway ice was a bumpy, treacherous and the ice equivalent of potholes. I was alone. The sky was as purple as a bruise. But I never really mastered any of those steps, I never really became ballerina graceful—not like the picture in my head.

It was only about 10 years ago that I realized that the reason I never progressed as a skater was that I never had a teacher or mentor. In fact, as far as I know there were no professional skaters in our town. However, for years I carried a kind of inner failure that I hadn’t done better. The girl in me never realized that I needed instruction, guidance, a kind word—not just a kid alone on a cold night struggling to scrap together a performance without any instruction or help.

So thanks to Obama and every other adult who lends a guiding hand. If you’re a writer find a mentor. If you cannot find one, read books on craft. And for all the hate mongers who are poisoning our country, I curse you with a serious case of frostbite.