I sat in Spearfish Canyon one October weekend and was completely uninspired. The hills rose around me, the trees revealed yellow overcoming green in the battle of autumn colors, and I simply took it all in. "Yes, it's pretty," I thought. That was all.
My reason for being in Spearfish Canyon was to attend a Prairie Winds writers' workshop. A number of thoughts were tossed about at the workshop, but one that is with me still is, "Can good come from good?" Can good writing come from good experiences, or must it always be the result of pain-wrenching, pulse-stopping occurrences?
The optimist in me opted for the notion that yes, good can come from good. I thought of nature. I looked around the wood-paneled, stone-fireplaced lodge and gazed out floor-to-ceiling windows at faithful evergreens and entertaining deciduous trees. I kept looking, kept gazing, and kept looking peevishly at my paper. Nothing was flowing.
On a break, I drove up the canyon to a rest area and settled myself on a tree that had fallen to breach the chasm of a creek. I read a bit and gazed into the water, and then I returned to the workshop. Once back, I wrote the following:
Strange to See
I perch
on a birch
and stare
as fish glare
up at me
strange to see.
As inane as that seemed to me, it had gotten rid of my mental block--the iron one that said I could only write down things that were important--things like the "tough girl" student who secretly visits to give me hugs, an ink spot on my jeans, the loss of a boyfriend and his trepidation about retaining friendships with his family, the fishermen in the border on my hotel room walls, and my cultural identity as a Norse/English/Scot-American. Those writings weren't great, they were just my thought, written down, with no cohesiveness or witty wording.
The next day during break, I took another drive up the canyon--and kept going. The farther I drove, the more time that jogged by, the more nervous I got. I was twenty-four and playing hooky, and I wondered what the repercussions would be. The more I wondered, the more my mind warmed up--for the writer's Indy 500, it seemed.
Words started flowing from my head and, still conscious about time, I didn't stop to write them down. I wrote as I drove. I felt prolific--profound--poetic! Underlying all was that sense of anxiety and the rush of adrenaline from doing something I knew was not on the academic agenda.
I returned to the workshop and examined my thoughts and their timing. Can good come from good? I still do not know. I wrote some good things about good topics on my way up and down the canyon. At the time, though, I was indulging in un-good activities. Until someone proves otherwise, I will operate on the premise that good experiences do not necessarily inspire good writings and bad experiences or thoughts may inspire fantastic writings.
So, what I can take back to my classroom? Is there any "bad" there that can inspire fantastic writings?
A few days before I left for the workshop, one of my students looked wistfully at me and said, "I wish I could write. I lost both my brother and my mother within a year. I wish I could write about those things."
What can I tell her? Writing for her will be more therapeutic than anyone's consolations could ever be. I would love to see her get out and scrawl something--find a fallen birch tree.
Jessica J. Peterson
Prairie Winds Writers' Workshop
October 1999