by Laurie Wagner | Jun 11, 2013 | Blog
What if I told you that it took me ten years to understand what I was teaching? It looked like I was teaching people how to write, but what I was actually doing, I realized late in the game, was teaching writers how to peel away the layers of their story and dig for something more true, more authentic and just plain honest. And while all that digging and examining is good for writing, it’s also excellent for living. When you chip away at the façade of your story, and you lay down one true word, and then the next true word you will eventually become stripped down and naked to yourself. And when you see yourself like that, there’s no turning back. You may, as many of my students have done, begin the process of changing your life. I’m a process person. I’m all about getting words onto a page; messy, ugly, imperfect, glorious words. And to do that you need to become comfortable with being uncomfortable. For me, it’s not about what I’m writing or whether I like what I’m writing that’s important. That the pen inks like a river across the page, that I have the courage not to know what the next word is, or the word after that…that I keep going anyway. That’s the spirit, that’s what makes a sound turn into a song. I might only be able to hear bits at first – the merest sound of a refrain – but I’ll swirl it around in my mouth, taste it, roll it on my tongue and Wa La, I start singing. That’s...
by Laurie Wagner | Jun 2, 2013 | Blog
The note your ten-year-old writes you because she heard you crying in the bathtub. “Mommy, we love you very much. Who wouldn’t?” The way she comes in while you’re laying there in three inches of hot water; depleted, exhausted, alone, and how she tacks her little note onto the tile across from where you lay so you can see it. “Mommy, we love you very much. Who wouldn’t?” The way your skin feels right after the bath; smooth and velvety and warm. The peace of being alone in the house because your husband has taken the children out for a bike ride, and how you sit on the porch with your summer skirt on and light up that cigarette. How glad you are that you saved this little bit of tobacco for a moment like this. The big, tall, magnificent trees in your yard and the way they move in the wind. The sound of the wind. The peace of being alone; everything is going to be alright, you tell yourself. You’re going to be alright. Wondering if you could fall in love with your husband again. The possibility that the love you seek is right here, at home, with him. The quiet beauty of your ramshackle home at the end of the road, a home with no one in it except you and the dog. The way you leave the front door open for the wind. How you need the wind to keep you moving, especially now. How after the cry, and the bath, and your late afternoon glass of wine, you feel capable again. Strong. Ready. Right....
