“Writing doesn’t always have to know where it’s going …
“And so, in order to be a good writer, I have to be willing to be a bad writer. I have to be willing to let my thoughts and images be as contradictory as the evening firing its fireworks outside my window. In other words, let it all in — every little detail that catches your fancy. You can sort it out later — if it needs any sorting.”
— Julia Cameron
The Right To Write
Snooger, a snoggle, woke up to a blazing sun. Snoggle Swamp was hot and wet this morning, which was nothing new. After all, it was a swamp.
(Uh oh — you didn’t hear this, dear reader, because you can’t hear what’s in my head, but the Self-Editor is also awake, trying to form the exact right words to put down so that Snooger and his swamp appear perfectly formed on the page.
But that isn’t the point of this exercise, is it? No, my fingers are supposed to fly across the page and whatever comes out is OK, because I’ll go back and save the brilliant ideas and discard the silly ones — unless it’s supposed to be a silly story, and then I’ll keep the silly ideas and discard the bland ones — but the point is to race across the page and write without that idiotic Self-Editor trying to manipulate the words so they’re just-so-perfect right there on the page the first time he gives me permission to set anything down on the page.
Well, oh yeah, sez I? I give my Self-Editor permission to stuff himself into the arse of the left side of my brain and sit there reading spreadsheets until I’m ready to let him out! Right now, it’s time for flying through space and climbing faraway mountains or shrinking to the size of amoebas and rustling bacteria into their cages, do you hear? No more self-editing!! At least until it’s time to take a break and see what’s been hurled freely onto the page without that worse-than-senseless fool of a Self-Editor who can’t stand the sight of freedom.)
Now, as I was saying …
Snooger, a snoggle, woke up to a blazing sun. Snoogle Swamp was always hot, and always wet, because of course swamps on Venus are always hot and wet. If you were closer to the sun by 26 million miles, you would be hot and wet all the time, too.
(The next half-hour turned out to be amazing, in part because two friends happened to drop reading prompts at just the right moment. I must wait to share that scene, because it’s part of a larger bit of writing that I plan to share by year’s end. If all writing sessions went this well, I would promise to share it before summer. All I know is: When I banned the Self-Editor from lurking where he doesn’t belong, all heaven broke loose.)
It’s a once-in-a-lifetime shot, a moment of joy captured by an inexpensive camera that had no business taking a photo this precious — Willow The Best Dog There Is™ and her cousin Zola romping with wild abandon across a field. I took a lot of photos that day, most of them blurs or pictures of stationary dogs, but somehow this image also emerged.
We took our almost-year-old golden retriever puppy with us to visit a friend and colleague whose golden was six months old. The resemblance between the two pups was amazing, and a quick comparing of notes revealed we’d adopted from the same breeder, so our girls were cousins or perhaps even sisters from different litters.
They ran and ran together in the field and along a Lake Michigan beach until we were tired — THEY never tired, we did. It was a magical day that was repeated a few other times. We haven’t seen our friends in some time, but we think of the special kinship between the two goldens often, and I framed a copy of that little Nikon’s moment in the sun and hung it on my office wall.
You can see the resemblance; I have to look closely to remind myself that Willow is the one in the lead, being chased by Zola. They are beautiful animals sharing sheer joy.
And so my heart sank yesterday when Zola’s human posted photos on Facebook with the simple caption “Zola — Aug. 31, 2009 to Feb. 12, 2021.”
Willow is more likely to trot across a field nowadays, her mad dashes behind her now, and I suspect Zola aged with the same grace and dignity. They fill our hearts to overflowing and then break them, never to be forgotten, always remembered with love.
And every day we see friends and acquaintances on social media mourning the loss of their furry companions, but this particular one strikes especially close to home, as a literal death in the family.
I am grateful for every morning that Willow strolls in to remind me it’s time for her breakfast, and for every night that she steps up onto the footstool and then onto the bed to take her place at my feet, because I know a finite number of those mornings and nights remain.
Today, though, I remember a dog who loved the water and running and her human dad and mom with a depth that belied her youth. When the pain of losing her eases, the joy of Zola’s memory will endure.
