Writing is great. You don't need special equipment such as a
five foot harp or scuba gear. The materials are cheap, always
available, and easy to store, unlike jig saws, dye vats or
looms the size of the average Israeli living room. Plus,
being a writer gets you special advantages, like having
writing friends.
I've got a writing friend I'll call Shoshana. After all, I do
want to keep her as a friend. Our conversations go like
this:
"Hello?"
"Hi," I say, in a voice that implies the probable end of the
world. It is essential to set the mood of the coming
conversation.
"What gives?" Opening gambit, her side. The question is
necessary, after all, I was the one who called, but her tone
lets me know that while she acknowledges and may sympathize
with my situation, her own is on par with the health of the
Russian budget.
"I can't get the kids to stop fighting," I say, as a crash
and two screams happen on the other side of the door.
"Yeah, I know. My kids, too." There is some background noise
from her side. Past experience has taught me to quickly
distance the receiver from my ear as she screams, "Hey, guys.
Cut it OUT!"
"Vacation," I murmur. "Yeah," she sighs.
Later, I may hand out tissues to assorted offended egos
curled up in private corners and Shosh might be hunting
bandages or compresses. This has to do with respective ratios
of girls to boys. But right now, we are on the phone and the
kids know that for at least ten minutes (?) we are simply not
available.
There is a long pause. Wheels turn, gears shift.
"I just read this book . . ." I start.
This is the meat of the conversation. Besides my need to get
some space from my kids. Please. I do love them. They are all
special people. And I care. They're great! Individually. In a
pack, well, uhm. Yeah, I still love them. My husband, too.
It's just that sometimes I wonder if he would recognize them
on the street. I tell him, "Mothers are for Love and Fathers
are for Discipline." He says, "Right. Got to catch a
shiur. You're doing great!" as he grabs his coat and
dashes out the door. We both know he won't be back before 10
p.m. That's about when I pick up the phone. It's less
fattening than a piece of cake. The cake remains an
option.
Shosh and I talk about books we've read, writing concepts,
our own writing. I'm stuck with what should be a great
character but can't figure out why she is so flat. Shosh has
a plot problem and can't figure out what to do with a side
character who seems to be taking over the story. We toss
ideas back and forth like tennis players. Ideas fly,
connections, and sometimes something clicks.
By the end of the conversation, we've learned something about
writing, about what we are trying to do, about ourselves. But
more important, we've walked together in a magic garden
picking flowers to braid into chains or crowns, sharing and
caring in the world of ideas far from the problems of our
everyday worlds.
"Yeah," one of us says. "Yeah," comes the answer.
"It's too quiet out there." "Here, too. Better see what's
happening."
"Hopefully, the kids have found something to do besides
fight."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Good question." "Bye."
Our problems, well, you know what. They're a lot like what
everyone has. The kids fight, have problems in school, get
disappointed by "friends", hate the teacher occasionally. We
daven, talk to our husbands and maybe ask a rav. It
seems that the only thing that rains is bills. A blessing is
the washing machine not breaking down. We daven, say
some Tehillim. Glasses break a week after they're bought;
shoes get lost; expensive coats from grandparents are left on
the bus. We daven and make Shabbos for the new mother
next door hailing from a distant part of the world.
We can't stop it, we can't change it, and nothing we say or
do seems to make a difference that we can discern. As mothers
and housewives, we cannot help living in our daily olom
hazeh, even while constantly striving for olom
habo. So we write to air out our thoughts and realign our
goals. We write about what it's like, what we wish it was,
what might be. At the predawn kitchen table, between feeding
the baby and getting the kids up and out, or propped up in
bed late at night when the only one up is the teenager we
can't pry off the phone, the hopes and dreams, frustrations
and feelings pour onto the paper. Things we wouldn't discuss
with anyone become the problems of an imaginary character and
a story we can tell. The details are wildly different -- but
the feel, the texture, well, yeah, that's mine and maybe
yours, too.
*
"Hi, Shosh." "What gives?"
"You won't believe what they did now." "Try me."
"They `found' another chicken!" [A chick some family didn't
want anymore.]
"Fantastic! What's the longest survival so far?"
"Two weeks." "Great!" "Yeah."
Silence.
"You know, that story line you were stuck on. Well, I was
thinking . . ."
