Writing for Surprise
The year is 2007. It is a weekday afternoon, and I am trying to get Hadley, who is not yet six months old, down for a nap.
Is it fair and also awful to write that I live for naptime? Does this fact negate the thrill of holding Hadley in my arms? Or strolling her around our neighborhood, or listening to her sing - coos and blah blahs - as she delights in this world she’s been born into?
None of motherhood is a burden, but it is heavy all the same, just as a bushel of apples is - just picked off a tree and ready to eat. Naptime was my alleged sanctuary. My time for quiet. For reading. For writing. I hadn’t felt the need to write before I became a mother.
I write “alleged sanctuary” because unlike the churches that proclaim we can “come as we are,” the sanctuary doors of naptime are elusive and take all kinds of work to find the knob, open the door, step in, and for all that is holy, do NOT let that door slam. By faith and not by works have we been saved. That is true for Heaven. It is not true for naptime.
I did everything the books said. Everything the pediatrician said. Everything the woman in Whole Foods handing me a box of natural go to sleep medicine that cost more than a pair of Lululemon leggings said. Sometimes it would work. Sometimes it didn’t. Every day was a mystery. Every day was a suspense movie.
Naptime became a measuring stick by which I ruled whether the day had gone - and would go - well. Consequently, it also became the thing I used to determine whether I had done - and would do - well.
Perhaps you’ve read enough of my writing to know I am dramatic; that I can make a really big deal out of nothing. This is true. I pride myself on it, (though I know many who know and love me wish I came with a warning). I mention this aspect of myself because one might read this and think: Really? She’s placing her worth as a mother on whether or not she gets her kid down for a nap? I think that’s a reasonable question to ask, and it’s reasonable too, to feel aghast at the conclusion I made of myself.
But this is where writing for surprise comes in. On this particular day in 2007, I was sitting at a makeshift writing table, notebook open, pen at the ready, listening to Hadley crying, while I too, sat crying - my tears the only marks on the page.
So far, anyway.
In those days, my writing consisted of gathering moments of my days and writing a story from them. I didn’t know I was practicing Creative Nonfiction. I just knew it felt good to mark my days with some piece of beauty I’d made. I have said before that my writing has always been this prayer to God: “Here is what you gave me; here is what I did with it.” These redundant, frustrating naptime afternoons is how this prayer began.
While tears continued to fall both on my notebook and no doubt in Hadley’s crib, I remembered another time I’d cried over trying for an outcome - over and over - and getting it wrong.
Math.
I love the Lord, and if writing is His gift to me, then math is His practical joke. For years growing up, I was tortured by long division and its damn remainders, and unless it had to do with a metaphor, x never equaled y.
Remembering my toils with math, I realized I’d been here before - I’ve felt this before. I wanted to write. I needed to write. All that was at the forefront of my mind was my baby who I couldn’t get to sleep, how important it was that she sleep, and what a failure I believed I was because I couldn’t get her to sleep. I didn’t want to write about that, and even if I did, I was too close to it emotionally (and literally) to order it into a story.
But I could write about math. I could take what I experienced about naptime and apply it to what it felt like to try and solve an algebraic equation. And finding the parallel brought me relief - I could lay this down, I could send the truth off - but it also made space for joy and laughter. What I wrote was funny. I could be funny. I could find humor in situations that, at first blush, are dark and sad.
The surprise then, comes from our willingness to hold onto the moment long enough to see its many layers. Yes, we believe we are failures. Yes, this is discouraging. Yes we are sad. And what else? What is the weather like? What are you wearing? Who else is in the room? What does it feel like to lift your baby from the crib and whisper, “It’s OK. We’ll try again tomorrow.”? If it’s sad, can you make it beautiful, too?
Years later, I am teaching College Composition at a local community college. We are studying personal narrative. I circle the room as my students work on their stories, and one calls me over for help.
In his opening paragraph, he shares that he has anxiety. His body paragraphs build on this, as they are supposed to. He tells me though, that something is wrong. Something is off.
I read his draft, then look at him.
“This is funny,” I tell him.
“Yeah,” he says and hangs his head.
I ask him why that’s a bad thing.
“Is it supposed to be funny?” he asks.
“It’s supposed to be true,” I tell him.
He started with what he knew to be true, and found more truth. He made something with what he was given. He found out a bit more about who he is and what he can do.
He surprised himself.
Prompts:
Think about a moment when you experienced a hefty emotion like shame, anger, sadness, or fear. Write as much as you can about that moment. Include people, sounds, tastes, etc. Leave nothing out. Next take a highlighter and mark details that feel fresh and vivid - even if they’re tender. On a new piece of paper, write the word, phrase, or sentence and freewrite about that for 10-15 minutes. What do you learn? What do you see? What questions do you have?
Consider ending your essay with a question. My experience with this exercise is 100% surprise every time. In part because I don’t ever want to end with a question because it tells everyone I don’t know what I set out to know. But having a question hanging there leaves room for the story to continue. And so you write some more; you surprise yourself more.
Every day for 3-5 days, write the memory in 100-150 words. Do not copy what you wrote. Instead, start fresh every day. What do you find out? What do you learn? What do you want to develop from there?