This Elusive Craft

On Saturday night, several friends and I gathered at my pals', Josh and Grayson, house to watch a rented movie. Never able to make a decision on the spot (at least with such trivial things as movie rental selection), I brought to the gathering three movies to choose from. Well, The Merchant of Venice and The Woodsman would have to wait for another evening, because the group chose to watch the little known independent film A Love Song for Bobby Long. This quaint, southern story stars John Travolta (in one of his more interesting roles, though, yes, there is a dancing scene, which I've started to suspect is in Mr. Barbarino's contract) the mostly unknown Gabriel Macht, and the heart-all-a-twitter lovely Scarlett Johansson. Without dwelling on the story too long, since it is not the point of this post, the narrative revolves around a high-school dropout who journeys home to New Orleans after the death of her mother, only to find her mother's house has been left to her as well as a once vibrant and charismatic, now down-on-his-luck English Literature professor and his guilt-ridden protege who have already taken up a squalid residence within. It must be mentioned that I was very surprised by how much I enjoyed this film. I normally gauge enjoyment based on either how much I am brought to laughter, if the film sparks deep conversation, or how inspired I feel emerging from the film's world. The latter experience came on Saturday night. I've been wanting to write - something, anything - ever since.

Two days before watching A Love Song for Bobby Long, four fellow Truett students and myself met in the student lounge room in which I now sit, and began to discuss how a Truett Writer's Group would be structured this summer. The five of us, along with a few others unable to make the first meeting, agreed toward the end of the Spring semester to meet weekly during the summer as a kind of low-maintenance, seat-of-our-pants support group for each other as fellow writers. There are, of course, varied literary tastes in both preferred reading and style of writing, but with our second meeting coming up tomorrow during lunch, I find myself excited to sit in the presence of these friends and chase however many rabbits of conversation about writing present themselves. There is Grayson, a sucker for memoirs and similar styles of writing when he is not "dropping it like it's hot" to his favorite rap/hip-hop albums; Josh, an exceedingly intelligent student with a love for fantasy and writing that holds a touch of magical realism or is spread in an anti-epic fashion (tomorrow we will critique three chapters of a 98-chapter draft of one of the novels he has written - bravely he submitted his work to us first); Jeff, a reader of just about everything, though his most beloved are 20th-century British novels and collections of moral essays, will be a welcomed addition to our group during his last few months in Waco before moving to Southbend to begin Ph.D. work at Notre Dame; and Carrie, a lover of literary fiction and a hopeful short story writer yet with a specialty for children's Bible curriculum-writing, who, I must admit, has a little Scarlett Johansson-thing going on.

I look forward to this group mainly because I need an uncomfortable kick in the posterior as it relates to my own aspirations in writing. At home my desk is cluttered with stuff for filing, stuff for arranging, stuff for hanging, and stuff for the trash bin, since moving my bedroom furniture around to accommodate a smaller scope of living when Chad, my new roommate, moved in. This desk is a fantastic writing desk, with a large, genuine wood surface I sanded and refinished myself, deep, long drawers, and a just rustic enough feel that it seems to summon better words and tighter sentences from me than other writing surfaces. Yet I've written so little on it, and because I have a slight anal retentiveness when it comes to working at home, I know I will not be able to write a single word until that desk is clear, dusted, and there is an aroma candle burning nearby. Perhaps this group will rough me up or something if I start showing up week after week having not done any significant work.

In A Love Song for Bobby Long, there was presented such a cherished love for writing, and the characters all communicated how important deep, soul-searching prose and poetry was to the condition - what's more, the worth - of one's soul. Oh, what is this strange craft of writing? How elusive are the right words; how much more reluctant to behold is a continual desire to sit and work? Perhaps this writing group will help me. Maybe Grayson, Josh, Jeff, and Carrie will be for me like the third criteria of a movie-watching experience - they will, through their conversation and their own struggle with the craft, inspire me to keep taking up the pen.

So often I see my writing life serving as a mirror for my journey with God. When I feel lazy, lost for words or the desire to sit down and work the words, I often feel lost from God. When I do not write, I do not pray. When I neglect my work, I neglect the one who gave me these desires in the first place.

Oh, how I need to clear that desk!

Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.
- Cyril Connolly