Writer Body and Soul

After my run, Bear and I go to Tacos Locos to celebrate the end of a Tuesday. While we wait in line to order, I massage my temples and neck. As my husband and a fellow physician, Bear takes immediate notice, “You have another headache?”

“Yeah, it’s not quite pounding but definitely a dull ache. I’m hoping some food will help.”

“Did you overdo it on your run again?”

“Maybe,” I hedge, “but the day turned out to be beautiful.” We both know that he’s right, but running keeps me sane. If I run myself to the point of exhaustion, then I’m too tired to think about the darkness that lurks behind the veil.

“It’s pretty hot out there,” he counters.

“I know, I know. I just felt cooped up all day.”

We approach the food truck, which gives me a welcomed excuse to end the conversation there. I order the same thing I do every Tuesday: fish tacos with a side of chips and queso.

When we settle ourselves on a red picnic bench, I ask Bear, “what was the best part of your day?”

He answers without even having to think about it, “that it’s over.”

“I don’t disagree with you. It wasn’t a bad day, but it felt particularly long.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. People, I guess.”

“I hear you,” Bear agrees. It helps that he is a physician too. He doesn’t need an explanation on how patients can both fill up my cup and completely drain it.

I take a moment trying to reflect on something positive that happened today. Given Prim’s adventure at Cosmic Cafe earlier, I’m not sure now is the best place to make introductions. Instead I say, “my boss offered me a job promotion,” though it comes out more as a question.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Well, more like a promise of a potential promotion, but I don’t think I want it.”

“Why not?”

“It sounds like more work. Less patient care, but more admin time.”

“Does it come with a pay raise?”

“It would, but I don’t know if it’s worth it. I feel like I already give so much energy to that place, do I really want to give it more?”

“Work will always ask for more.”

“That’s the problem. Why can’t what I’m doing now be good enough? I just want to show up, do my job, and go home.”

“So what did you tell them?”

“‘Thank you for the opportunity, and I’ll think about it.’ What else was I supposed to say?”

“You could just say, ‘no.’” Bear makes it seem so simple. I envy his confidence.

“If I put my head down, work a little harder for a little longer, then maybe I can pay off my medical school debt sooner. The sooner debts are paid, the sooner I can get out.”

“If that’s what you really want.”

“What I want is to quit and write a novel. I want to capture the imagination of generations, sell my book, and make $2.5 million in royalty. I want to become royalty and never work again.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Money.” I say, taking a bite of my taco. “Medicine pays the bills. I still have student loans.” Bear and I masticate on this thought for a while. We both owe a mountain of debt to medicine, and I must serve my time. While it’s not a life sentence, it’s a good 10-15 years without parole.

It’s a tough bite to swallow, but I eventually say, “Ultimately, it’s just the training that I would need for the promotion, so I haven’t promised anything yet. It doesn’t hurt to leave the door open.”

“I agree, it’s good to have options. But remember to set your boundary too. You tend to be a people-pleaser and avoid confrontation,” he says. His words sting because I know they’re true, so I do what I do best and change the subject.

“I’m well aware. I can’t even write about confrontation.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Conflict makes me so uncomfortable that it’s hard for me to even imagine it. I avoid thinking about it because what if it comes true?”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“You know the quote: thoughts become words, words become actions, actions become habits, habits become your character, which becomes your destiny. Well, I find it hard to think about all the bad things that my characters could do in order to make an interesting story. What if by writing about these things I somehow become bad myself?”

“Then be bad. But that doesn’t even matter because this is make-believe. You can write whatever you want that doesn’t make it true.”

“I know,” I say pointing a chip at him. “Just like I know scary movies aren’t real, but that doesn’t make them less scary. I’m a highly sensitive human that is prone to suggestibilities.”

“Yes you are, and right now you’re being dramatic.”

I shove the chip in my mouth. “Regardless, I’m completely blocked. It’s hard to write a story without a conflict.”

“Well, what do you want to write about?” Bear asks a seemingly straight forward question for a writer, and yet it makes me feel caught like a mouse chasing after cheese. I drizzle some queso onto my next bite of taco, thinking it over.

“I’m reading Sy Montgomery’s Of Time and Turtles right now.” I finally say. “It’s a lovely memoir with a simple storyline, heartfelt themes, and wisdom woven throughout. Turtles may seem unexciting, but they can actually be quite dramatic! I see the same writer in her that I see in me.”

The answer surprises me, and also feels right. Memoirs are my mother tongue. They are the type of stories that I saw my Grandmother write at her kitchen table. I, too, tend to do my best writing at the table, with the movement of love and family circling around me. Writing is the thing that has always brought me healing, clarity, and insight. Memoirs also evoke a quality of humanness. It creates a container for a more subtle, spiritual connection between writer and reader.

“I envy the fictionists though and their ability to evoke imagery, suspense, and adventure,” I say. “I want to write stories about castles in the sky, painted dragons, and epic romances between star-crossed lovers. Magic. Adventure. This is the stuff that I like to read, but my pen doesn’t like to write it.”

“Why not?” Bear asks.

“My pen is more mundane than that. The stories that flow are musings and meanderings of my every day life. They are pennies from heaven — unexpected surprises you find along the way. While many may pass over them, judging them as unworthy of their time and attention, I chose to pick them up, admire them and place them in my savings for future use.”

“The way to make $2.5 million is one penny at a time,” Bear says.

“Exactly! I find richness in the small things. My story may not be as thrilling as a war between goblins and warlocks or as passionate as fairy smut, but my life feels like an epic adventure. The future is a complete mystery. Every moment that passes me by is a surprise as to what comes next.”

“So when are you going to finish this masterpiece?”

“At this rate, it’ll likely be post-mortem. When I am at work, I barely have the energy to get through the day,” I explain to Bear. “I am burned out, getting crispier at the edges every day. I don’t know if it’s the cause or consequence of feeling stuck, but I don’t have the energy to write.”

“Look I get it man,” he says. “I used to carry a sketchbook with me everywhere I went for years. Lately, my body battery is empty.”

“My body battery says system error.”

We finish up our tacos, allowing the conversation to drift to lighter topics. On our way home, I rub my temples again. While eating helped, I still have a band of pressure that wraps around my head. If I move too suddenly, it became a sharp knife through the eye. I’ll be grateful to take my hat off soon.