How much of my life should I reveal here? Where do I draw the line regarding what personal details or thoughts or doubts to include? Does leaving myself vulnerable make me naive? Negligent? Irresponsible? To myself? To others whose lives are inseparable from my own?
But. How can I be authentic without sometimes being vulnerable?
These are some of the questions that arise again and again. And the answers are no closer to the surface.
I know that I will not post photos.
Or use names.
I will not reveal any identifying details about
where I live.
Perhaps you could find out
if you really wanted to.
You could find out where I am
who I am.
But you probably wouldn’t know me any better.
Even if we met for coffee.
Because who I am. Is words.
Words I have more of than I know what to do with.
And so I am grateful for this blog.
For now this is where I am.
Whatever becomes of it.
My time is extremely limited.
But I will be here as often as I can.
Except tonight. Tonight I have the night to myself for the most part. I had intended to “catch up” on blogging (as if that is possible). But instead I am going to read. I have four books going right now, and the time has come to commit to one and read to the end. I’ve decided on Donald Hall’s beautiful tribute to his late wife, poet Jane Kenyon: The Best Day the Worst Day. Hall’s writing–the ordinary portrayal of their extraordinary life together, full of ordinary details–has pulled me in emotionally to a place that brings me right back to the questions of what to write about. The question of knowing how much to reveal.
Here is an accomplished writer who writes what he wants to and what he needs to. He writes to make a living. He has written textbooks and articles. Short stories. He is known for volumes of poetry (and a lovely poem-turned-children’s book, The Ox-Cart Man, a favorite of our children with its beautiful illustrations by Barbara Cooney) and also wrote a lovely chapter book featuring Babe Ruth (we have that one, too). And here is this work of his that I am reading. A memoir subtitled “Life with Jane Kenyon.” Simple. And yet so very rich. Both the life and his writing. As I read his story and am grateful for so much that he has shared, I think about my own writing and my own stories and I wonder how much of them I can tell here, in this public space, and how it is different from book form. Or from being a writer for a living. A well-known writer. A writer married to another writer. A writer who dictated his work rather than sat at a keyboard as I am doing. I think about the striking differences. And I think about the irrepressible similarities. A writer must write.
But a writer must read, too, and so as I snuggle down under the covers in my serenely quiet house I will read and think about how writing bridges gaps and creates worlds to be shared. I will think about how writing informs who I am as I read the sad and somehow inspirational story of how cancer cut short the truly shared life of two artists, each who had a way with words.
And I will hope to come to the end of the book with not only the sadness that I’m sure will be there for having witnessed such a premature end to a loving relationship but perhaps some clarity of how to put it all together. Life. (And the relationships that define me.) Writing. (And the way putting my hands on a keyboard fills me with a sense of accomplishment and peace that I have been unable to achieve in any other way.)
If you do not know the work of Jane Kenyon and/or Donald Hall, I urge you to go to your library. Soon. You will not be disappointed. If you have a favorite Donald Hall and/or Jane Kenyon poem, I’d love to know about it. I have only one volume of poetry by each, just a fraction of their bodies of work.
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Enjoy your quiet night for you! I’m doing the same. But not reading a book. Just enjoying reading all my favorite blogs and connecting with some old friends.
I love the work of both and was introduced to them by my first writing professor, herself a poet. Whenever I read poetry, I find it spurs my writing, though, surprisingly, it doesn’t make me feel like writing poetry. It just reminds me of things from my past and makes me want to write what I write – memoir.
As far as anonymity, I think it can go too far. I’ve got to trust the blogger’s voice. Too much hiding of identities, of what their thoughts are, all of that, and it’s not enough for me. My blog, being a “writer’s blog” as in my writer’s presence in the world, has no anonymity, yet that forces me to keep it light. Or does it?
Jane Kenyon is wonderful. But I’m currently alternating (poetry) a bit of Amy Lemmon (Saint Nobody) and Poems New and Collected by Wistawa Szymborska.
For overloaded mothers, sometimes poetry is the best of all worlds. Interruptions don’t ruin the magic.
I do not read much poetry. In fact, I hardly read at all. I used to. I used to devour every book in my house. Going to school changed that. I stopped having luxury time.
Oh, but you just reminded me that I need that time. I need to read. I need to refresh my intelligence.
What is it, anyway, to know someone? Is it to know her name, address, and phone number? Is it to know her face, but not her mind? Is it to know her inner-most thoughts and the words that represent them?
I believe that the answer is “yes” to all of them. To know someone isn’t a single data set. My neighbors know me one way. My family knows me differently. The blogosphere knows me differently still. And while that is a little uncomfortable, I think it is a beautiful and apt representation of something that is every bit as complicated as it should be.
I can feel and understand both the desire and hesitation in your questions. What to disclose? How much? It’s my story…my truth. Am I telling it? And if I do? Have I told too much? Am I too much? On and on it goes. And frankly, even in this post you have struck a poignant, powerful balance. You have asked questions and given us answers. You have asked us questions and invited us to ask even more. You have asked questions and given yourself both – answers and more questions. What could be better, really? Writing (and blogging and poetry) are all passionate, powerful vehicles through which we become known…and through which we better know ourselves. Keep writing! Keep blogging! Keep reading! The interplay is stunning – and worth being seen, experienced, heard, read, lived!
I love both Donald Hall and Jane Kenyon. I had the great good fortune of meeting Hall and hearing him read – he was affiliated with my boarding school, near his home in New Hampshire. As a man, he radiates the wisdom and honesty that I hear in his poems.
And I adore Jane’s work. You must be reading my mind, because her poem “Let Evening Come” has been in my mind for the last 24 hours, as I ponder the sadness of the light this time of year, and think about the inextricability of ends and beginnings.
Thank you for this lovely piece.
As you know, I struggle with the “sharing” issue as well. I wish I had an easy answer. I suppose at least there’s solace in the fact that you are not alone.
I love Donald Hall. I thank my lucky stars every time Big Boy declares Ox-Cart Man his favorite book. I am just starting to learn more of his poetry and am grateful for this recommendation.
For me this question comes down to the distinction between the personal and the vulnerable. I share the latter, but not the former. Ultimately, though, I think authenticity comes from a writer’s comfort with the individual disclosure decision she has made – whatever that may be.
Silly me, I was reading my daughter a poem from her little book of poems and, lo and behold, Donald Hall is the author! Now I can officially say I enjoy his poetry. It is kind friendly and adult friendly. It is both silly and introspective.
Donald Hall wrote one of my favorite lines ever: “Never consider surface except as the extremity of a volume.” (In Notes to Nobody) I like what you say about people knowing you through your words, not where you live, what your kids look like (in photos) etc. Those details of our lives are universal and not needed to understand what you and your sister try to say here each day. (That said, it’s hard to know what to reveal as a writer and what to keep separate.)
Finding the time to read is always a struggle. Something about a wintry day encourages it – if time permits. Still waiting for Kristen’s 27-hour day. It would help.
If I’ve read anything more advanced than Junie B Jones in the last five years, my brain is too fried any more to remember it.
:)
I have always spent winters and summers reading until I discovered writing and running. Now I find I do not read enough. To that end, I am reading trashy romance novels at the moment. I have been through five in the last couple of weeks.
I struggle with my life as a writer. I like to feel connected too much to sit at home and write all day but there are days that I do this anyway.
This is beautiful, Jen. Hope you enjoyed your night of reading. And I’m putting that one on my List To Read. P.S. Shout to you guys on my blog.