This blog is all about my writing journey. I have written hundreds of grant proposals, but I write so many different things that I don't think of myself as only a grant writer. I'm a writer. Period. And this blog is about that journey.
I was browsing through the many documents on my computer desktop a few minutes ago looking for something in particular I need to work on when I found the first draft of my mother's obituary, written over 3 1/2 years ago (yes, my desktop is a mess and I really do have documents from years ago just floating out in the open in cyberspace). As I opened it, all of the emotion I experienced when I wrote it came flooding back. I didn't want to write it, but there was just an assumption in the family that I would be the one to take care of this task. Maybe it's because I write for a living. Maybe it's because I wrote my grandmother's obituary less than a year before. Maybe it's simply because nobody else wanted to do it. It really doesn't matter; the task fell to me.
On movies and TV shows about up-and-coming reporters you hear jokes about reporters who start their careers writing obituaries, and obituary writing is treated as something less than "real" writing because obituaries have a standard format and are typically filled with facts that call for (and allow) little creativity. You open with a paragraph announcing that the person died, when they died, where they died, and how old they were when they died, and on a rare occasion someone might add how they died. The following paragraph lists surviving family members. The next paragraph cites family members who died before, and the obituary closes with the details of the funeral or memorial service and where to send donations or condolences to the family. I can see how that would be pretty dry, and how reporters faced with that task would do just about anything they could to move up to something else.
However, some newspapers allow family members to write the obituary themselves and to add a paragraph between the introductory "just the facts" paragraph and the paragraph about surviving family members that tells the reader a little something about the person's life. Mom's whole obituary was 350 words. The paragraph about her life was 138 words.
138 words to capture the essence of 65 years of living, loving, learning, grieving, rejoicing, teaching, giving, laughing, worshiping, crying, sharing, taking, risking, and surviving. 138 words to try to convey to the world the sense of loss I felt in those days after mom left us. 138 words to help people who would never meet her understand how this world has been a better place because she was here. 138 words to help people who knew her remember what a difference she made and all the things she did and the roles she played during the times of her life before and after her life intersected with theirs. 138 words to describe her life for the archives of history--the official written record of her life and death. 138 words to say goodbye.
When I wrote my grandmother's obituary, I felt a sense of pride as I researched the life she lived as a young woman, and all the things she accomplished. I was pleased with how what I had written represented grandma's life. Even the hint of missing emotion in the list of facts about her life seemed to appropriately mirror the emotional distance my grandmother maintained between herself and those around her, even most members of her family. While it wasn't the best writing I've ever done, I thought I did well.
But mom's obituary was different. At the time I wrote it (and rewrote it and rewrote it and…) I knew it wasn't good enough. Even now, almost 4 years later, when I look at it I feel like I let her down. I had 140 words. In the middle of a highly restricted 350 word obituary to say anything I wanted about her life in any way that I wanted to say it. And what I came up with was a list of things she had done in her life. While it was accurate, it didn't capture her, and that's what makes me sad today.
I thought about rewriting it at some point, not because anybody else cares, but because I think I could do better now that the intense fog of grief has lifted. No, I know I can do better. When I think about it I can hear mom's voice in my head saying two things concurrently – "If you think you can do better, then rewrite it" and "It really doesn't matter; the people who loved me, the people who mattered, knew who I was."
In my defense (or maybe I'm just justifying a poor writing job), I think it's nearly impossible to capture the essence of the person's life in 140 words or less. Even so, when I think of my mom, a few single word descriptors rise to the top as the best way to summarize her life: Love. Joy. Fear. Resilience. Service.
The life of a consultant is a glamorous one (or so I'm told). I thought I'd share the details of a day to illustrate that glamor.
6:30 a.m. - The alarm goes off. I grab it and turn it off (the snooze button is for wimps) and roll over, pretending I didn't hear it.
7:00 a.m. - My husband's alarm goes off. He bounds out of bed, moves quickly to the kitchen and is back in a few minutes with a cup of coffee (for him) that he nurses as he turns on the light and the TV (for morning news). I don't like him very much at this moment, so I decide it's a good time to say my morning prayers. I ask for guidance for my day, and I pray for my husband, my boys, my extended family, friends, our nation's leaders, and the San Francisco Giants (not necessarily in that order). Within moments the day starts to look better.
7:30 a.m. - Husband is getting 6 year old up and ready for school. I wonder if I really need to go to work today. Isn't today a national holiday somewhere? My lofty thoughts are interrupted by the buzzing of my cell phone as two text messages come through. The first is from an employee who won't be at work today (Darn it! I knew there was a holiday somewhere!) and the second is from an employee who will be late today. I decide I should get up.
7:35 a.m. - I get a call on my cell from a client. Is this a good time to talk? Sure, just be patient while I spit out toothpaste and ignore me if I poke my eye out while trying to put on mascara and hold the phone at the same time.
8:15 - I arrive at the office. With disappointment, I notice that no one has cleaned off my desk or paid any bills over night. Do I have to do everything? Sheesh....
9:00 a.m. - After reading and dealing with about 100 e-mails, I pull out the most recent project I'm working on, a final evaluation report for a 4 year school safety project. Progress is slow on this project because there is so much information to process. Over the next two hours, I am interrupted about 20 times by phone calls from clients, questions from employees, and numerous other distractions. Hmmm...maybe that is another reason why progress on this project is slow...?
12:00 noon - I notice that I am about 6 pages ahead on the report I'm working on, but I have written several other things in the last few hours - objectives and an agenda for a grant writing workshop I'll be teaching in a couple of weeks, a budget justification for a client's grant in response to some questions posed by the federal program officer, a blog post, an email to my son's teacher, a couple of client contracts, a few Facebook and Twitter updates, and a letter to my aunt. I begin to wonder if maybe my son is not the only one in the family with ADHD.
1:00 p.m. - I wander out of my office to check on the rest of the staff and see what everyone is working on. Some are out at lunch. One is on the phone with her child's school. One is laughing at a YouTube video. I begin to think I should venture out of my office more often. Rather than get lost in calculating how much money I'm paying for people not to work, I decide to hand out some assignments instead. As I notice my attitude is not as good as it should, I decide that this is a good time for another brief prayer session. Because I'm at work and short on time, I cut to the chase and just pray for guidance, patience, and the Giants. The rest will have to wait until later. Before I sign off, I ask God to please do something about my desk and the bills. He parted the Red Sea, made blind men see, cured leprosy - my desk and my bills should be a snap for Him.
2:20 p.m. - Afternoon productivity panic sets in. I close my office door and get serious about that evaluation report. I close Facebook and Twitter. I close out my email. I turn off Pandora. I start focusing and making good progress, until.......
3:00 p.m. - The gardener shows up and starts using every noise-making gardening instrument known to man - lawn mower, weed whacker, leaf blower. I wonder how anyone kept their landscaping looking nice before the invention of these tools. Did Ernest Hemingway have to deal with this when he was trying to write? Probably not, but he had other issues. I think that's why he drank.
3:25 p.m. - Rhythmically pounding my head on the desk chanting, "Focus, focus, focus....."
3:45 p.m. - I realize I haven't had lunch yet. I forage in the freezer for a bagel dog.
4:30 p.m. - My staff leaves for the day just as I start to make some serious progress on my project for the day. I settle in for some great work time - no phone calls, no interruptions.
6:00 p.m. - My phone rings. It's my husband asking when I'll be home and what's for dinner. I refrain from suggesting what he can do with dinner. Instead, I respond sweetly that I'll leave the office now and be home soon.
6:20 p.m. - I rush in the front door at home, drop my purse and computer case, grab my 6-year-old and whisk him into our home office. We have homework and reading to get done before first pitch in the Giants game at 7:15. While he's getting his backpack, I dash into the kitchen and grab something from the freezer to throw into the microwave, wishing that I had gotten up just a little earlier this morning so I would have had time to get something in the crock pot. (Ohhhhhh! That's why the alarm was set for 6:30!). Then I run back to my son and start supervising homework while trying to listen to the Giants pre-game show on TV in the other room. Every now and then, my husband shouts out critical information - tonight's lineup, who's on the DL today, starting pitchers, etc. Suddenly, it seems like my son is intentionally working slower, even though I know he's not.
7:10 p.m. - Homework is finally done and it's time to read with my son a bit. I can hear the lineups being announced on TV for the game. I ask my son to pick a book for us to read. I secretly pray he'll pick something short like Clifford. He picks The Velveteen Rabbit. I tell him we'll read fast, like a bunny, tonight. I can hear first pitch come....and go....while I read and snuggle with the sweet little love of my life. I decide I'd rather slow this down. The game doesn't matter so much anymore.
7:30 p.m. - I serve dinner and get ready to settle in to watch the game when my cell phone rings. It's a client. Is this a good time to chat? Sure, just ignore my occasional shouts of "Hey Blue! Can't you see?"
8:00 p.m. Phone call is done. My food is cold. Game is continuing without me. It's time to get the little one ready for bed. I move through that routine while my husband shouts updates from the game. I'm starting to not like him very much again so it's a good time for prayer.
8:30 p.m. - Back to the game. I pull out my laptop and start working on that evaluation report while I watch. The phone rings twice more before the game is over at 10:00 - two clients, each of whom wants "just a minute." I lose 3 full innings of the game.
10:00 p.m. - The Giants won! I say a prayer of thanks. I knew it was good to add the Giants to my morning prayers. Since God is clearly on my side, I wonder if this means my desk and bills will be taken care of, too.
10:05 p.m. - Husband announces he's going to bed. The game must have exhausted him. I say goodnight and get back to work. The next hour is the most productive of the day.
11:20 p.m. - I check in with Facebook, read a few blogs I like to follow, and answer some emails before I decide it's time to take a shower and get to bed.
12:00 midnight - My head hits the pillow. I say a prayer of gratitude - for the amazingly wonderful life I lead, for my family, for my health, for the Giants' victory. I set the alarm for 6:30 a.m., snuggle up with my husband and drift off to sleep thinking about what I have to do tomorrow.
My mother was, without question, my biggest fan. She was always encouraging me to write - even when I didn't want to. Whenever there was a gift giving occasion and I didn't know what to give, she would say, "Write a poem," and I would roll my eyes. She saw talent in me long before I saw it in myself, and the more she encouraged, the more I shied away from writing. Now that she's gone, though, I find myself remembering the multitude of lessons she taught me and tidbits of advice on everything from writing to toilet cleaning. I hear her voice when I speak and even when I look down at my hands as I type this, I see her hands. It's amazing how connected we all are, even when it seems that we're not.
So, as I pondered what to write today and stared down at the keyboard looking at her hands on the keys, I found myself thinking about mom and some of the lessons about writing she taught me. Here are just a few:
Simple sentences can be the best. Mom was a second grade teacher for years. Her years of teaching second grade writing left her with an admiration for the simple sentence. In fact, most of her letters were collections of very simple sentences. The best ones, though, were the ones that said a lot in few words, like "I love you," "I'm on you're side," "I forgive you," "Don't give up," and "Don't be afraid."
Writing is an expression of your thoughts. Giving someone a little piece of the truth that's inside you really is a precious gift. I am still not a big fan of writing a poem for someone as a birthday gift, but a heartfelt letter about how much I appreciate them and why is the best gift I have ever received, and a love letter to my husband still brings a tear to his eye even after 23 years. At the end of Mom's life, she really couldn't speak much, but she would motion for us to hand her the little whiteboard we kept by her bedside and she would scribble, "I love you." Then she would keep pointing to it over and over again as she made the point that she really, really meant it. She could not have given me a better gift.
Writing keeps us connected - to each other and to our past. If you don't write, you are a little less connected to others. There was period in her later life when Mom was traveling around the country in an RV with my stepfather. Long before the days of 3G Internet access, she found ways to stay connected - a post office box service that would forward letters, an email service that worked over a payphone. She kept a journal of her travels (vacation travel as well as her RV life) that she would refer to when she wanted to remember some detail about where she had been. She made sure she was never disconnected from her family or her own memories.
Be careful what you write. It may be permanent. Mom used to have this advice about how to behave. She'd say, "If you wouldn't want it covered on the front page of the newspaper, don't do it." That's pretty good advice. Her advice for writing (which she didn't always follow) was, "If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything." She knew that a hurtful letter or note would last long after the passing feelings of anger or resentment went away and she rarely wrote anything that wasn't positive and encouraging. There was a point, though, when my mom and my husband were having a pretty bad argument over a serious matter. She wrote him a long letter saying some pretty nasty things. They worked out the argument a couple of years before she passed away; however, my husband still has that letter. I am 100% certain that she does not want to be remembered as the angry woman who wrote that letter. There's something about putting anger in writing that makes the sting more painful and makes it last longer.
Poems don't have to rhyme to be really good. As a second grade teacher, Mom was a big fan of "Roses are red, Violets are blue" poems. Eventually, we started to make fun of those. Mom's favorite was, "Roses are red, Violets are blue, Daffodils are yellow, and Birds of Paradise are orange and green." I made that up when I was ten and we still added it to the bottom of letters and laughed about it when I was 40. Most of hers ended with, "and I love you." Sometimes the ending would vary -- "and you're the light of my life," or "and I'm so glad you're in my life." They rarely rhymed, but they made me smile every time. That's my definition of a really good poem.
