It wouldn’t be Amen.  It probably wouldn’t even be Dear, as in Yes, dear.  Would it be goodbye?  What would occur to you if you had ten seconds to write something down?  I expect the sound in my ears would be something like Niagara, the feel of my heart clamoring like a teenager’s double-bassed trunk.  My feet would be gone, my knees too cold to quiver, my bladder releasing in dread.  But what would I say?  What could I write?

I tried.

I’m sorry.

Be good.

I love you.

And that about sums it up, I think.

The notion was introduced to me today, not for the first time, that writing = learning.  One does not write because one Knows, one Knows through writing.  This sounds like the snake-eating-tail conundrum on the surface, for how can one write what one does not know about?  But knowing and understanding are separate beasts, and in order to saddle the longer and latter, one must go through the process of curing the hide, attaching the harness, and doing all the other things that I can’t introduce into this analogy because I know very little about riding horses.

There:  a failure of the writing to know process?  Or just a bad analogy played out because I chose it poorly?  I could have compared writing to sewing a garment, and thus gone on until the final stitch in the hem was wrought.  Or the final bead strung, the final yarn loop hooked and tied, etc…  One may write to Know, but the knowing is what filters fresh water to the writing and keeps the fingers moving a little less aimlessly than the monkeys’ do.

It is during these swing times from leisure to lesson that I have time to think about writing as a process instead of a thing.  Drifting thoughts hold the promises of novels, while novels lose their appeal because there is no room in my brain for them.  Analysis becomes key to my own lazy practice of pretension and lapse.  Could I honestly write every day?  I write something every day, but not much of it qualifies–or does it?  Are many of my thoughts subject to the cutting of the Internal Critic, destined to hit the editing room floor before they live on the screen?  That’s worth thinking about, now that the deadlines of daily production are gone.  I discovered tonight that an exploration into a topic takes me about two pages.  An email to a professor can run as long as four paragraphs; to a friend, no more than one.  Why is that?  Do I feel more need to justify my electronic existence to my superiors?

Do I feel the need to write?  It is rarely a compulsion when I am in absorption mode.  We told oral stories in class today, and I was satisfied to listen.  Others sparked an idea or two, but they were repetitions of their themes.  Waiting for original inspiration is like having the idea of the perfect lover, the perfect spouse, the perfect dog.  It will never be found, because the mental perfection is so much More than ordinary (thanks, Disney).  So maybe any inspiration will do, and can be honed to perfection through practice.

And thus, having written, I have learned something.  Scary cool how that works, huh?

The fall term officially started last Monday because a certain unnamed West Hartford college does not hold with the certain Hartford college’s traditional observance of waiting until after Labor Day to begin.  This on the heels of learning at the eleventh hour that one of my classes would be canceled.  My affection for this place was waning mightily until said first class, which is -gasp-being taught by a real teacher, who is really employed at a suburban high school.  Learning expertise from an expert, in other words.  I’m excited again, because everything being modeled is done so with that dual lens of teacher and learner.  I will experience so much during this class that I will be able to use.  A course with practical application?  Who thought that up?

And then there’s the homestead, which felt like a family reunion all around today.  I have students in every class who I know, and the faculty all knew me by name.  In my African literature course (the salvation for the hole in my schedule) the prof continued a conversation we had left off in June, and in my Writing Theory and Practice class (prelude to tutoring), the instructor brought me a coffee.  Yes, read that again.  Tomorrow is the last class on the slate, Literacy and Literature, or How the Writers Became Literate.  It’s a brand-new cross listed course between English and Ed Studies, and the promise of exploring the education and literary experience of renowned authors promises to be a great trip.  Plus it’s in Seabury, my favorite hall on campus.

It looks like a lovely itinerary.

Some counts about my work on the 100 Days Project:

Total Words:  35,994

Longest Post:  622 words (Joan-16, The Writer-18)

Shortest Post:  71 words (Becky-80)

Mean:  347

Average:  360

Gender:  40 male, 56 female, 4 unspecified

boys:  13 (Jacob, Bobby, Tim, Sam, Lewis, Ben, Jimmy, Tyrique, Christopher, Miguel, Kai, Rami, Wayne

girls:  12 (Sara, Miranda, Flower, Leslie, Holly, Cindy, Olivia, The Actress, Cheri, Sophia, Lucy, Gloria

Elderly:  6 (Henry, Lloyd, May, Hazel, Lydia, Lottie)

Oddities:  6 (Zed = Jesus, Polly = ghost, Than = god of Death, Samantha = angel, Julian = Satan, Shadow = self

Real Characters:  8 (Lewis Carroll, Elly Jacobson, Tyrique Wilson, Sylvia Plath, (Edwin) Buzz Aldrin, Susan Gibb, Jeanne Harlow, Edgar Allen Poe)
Family:  4   (Jimmy, Kate, Pat, Catherine)

Autobiographical:  11 or more (Flower, Leslie, Holly, Cindy, Grace, Primo, Adam, Robert, Angela, Carrie, The Teacher)

There are 14 people who were either already dead or who died during the course of their posts.  This does not include Polly, Samantha, Julian, or Zed.  Several more fates are unresolved.

Themes:  The perils of school and childhood remain rich subjects to mine, as do relationships and ideals:  honesty, love, religious dedication.  Many characters explored internal growths and struggles, while several wished they could just be alone.  I can see evidence of discussions, issues, and questions that were exorcised through this daily writing–life cannot be escaped.  The luxury of creating another person to feel my emotions, think my thoughts, fight my wars was uplifting and rewarding in a unique way.  There is a freedom that comes from being the puppet master that liberates one to say things that cannot be said in company, to explore radical options that cannot be entertained in the workplace, to dream of flying out the window to escape the restraints of social obligations.  Outside, I know better.  In here, it happened a few times.

It’s good to dream.

I am so habituated to the 100 Days Project I wanted to begin this title with a number.  But what day is it?  What post?  Have I used this title before?  Ah, no, I am in my own space here.

I feel like I did when I worked at the temp company, and I spent the summer hawking tickets to the circus over the phone.  The only way I could telemarket is in support of a good cause, which this was:  the MDA was the recipient for every ticket sold.  I was a good hawker.  At the end of 9 weeks (only 63 days, there!) I had sold over 500 tickets.  The next closest seller on my shift had sold 230.  Maybe it was the sound of my big brown eyes over the phone that appealed to my callers, who were invariably eating dinner or watching the evening news with Cronkite.  Like this summer’s job, in which I called up a hundred characters out of the blue, I did whatever was necessary to get the job done.

Sometimes I based the foundation on an existing person:  Sylvia Plath, Eleanor, Tyrique, Susan, Lewis, Edgar, Edwin.  Some were stretched and reformed, others plopped squarely into the post and let alone.  Was it a crutch?  I might think yes, or I might think that life has to enter the page.  Life subsumes writing, and the other way around.  (That’s my 90+ word from Harold Bloom–subsume).  I only live in one body, think with one mind.  Of course the two will mingle.  Eh, sue me.

Sometimes the characters were fantastical:  Vincent, Julian,Charity, Molly, Calliope, Carmelita.

Sometimes they were family:  Kate, Jimmy, Pat, Primo, Catherine. Cassiopeia.

And some were me, full out:  the Teacher, Carrie, Angela, Robert, Cindy, Holly, Leslie.

It’s been an interesting summer, and now as I clean off my mental desk, I’m reminded of that time in the hot stuffy gym of the elementary school where I sat and dialed the phone all night long, surrounded by people with whom I shared conversation, snacks, and a common goal.  While I felt a part of something with them, I also saw the moment coming when I would be apart from them.

For Steve and Sue, Carrieanne and Susan, John and Maggie, Jessica and Mindy, Denna and Neha, and Jim:  thank you for the companionship, the gentle support, the admittance into the mutual admiration society that you have together.  One day I just might be grown up enough to think I belong with you all.  Until that day, however, know that you have my respect and appreciation for being able to share in this intensely creative summer.  It was more fun than camp, less painful than dental procedures, and more expansive than a vacation across the globe.

Like everything else in life, there are days I will never forget, and days I can’t wait to.  Writing with a group, posting to a group page, is enormously helpful in getting something done everyday.  I think everyone should have a group like thins–similar to diet groups–to pull you over the humps and lift you out of the doldrums when you could care less about writing another word.  I found all of this and more during the project, and I am profoundly grateful for every one of these one hundred days.