Writing Indoors

The trail began to melt on Sunday. Thanks to overnight temperatures in the single digits, the surface was frozen again on Monday: perfect for winter walking. A light breeze chilled my face, yet I persevered and encountered only two regular trail walkers while I was out for my fast-paced, 30-minute walk. It was chilly!

I dreamed last night I had to untangle the shoe laces of a pair of my army boots. I still have two pair (acquired in 1976) I use in the garden. The shoe laces were exceedingly long and well tangled. Unlike most dreams, this one persisted into waking. Its meaning is clear. I need to go through the stacks of notes, mail, and things to do on the dining room table and get organized for a rapidly approaching spring. What seemed different this time is my acceptance of the dream as reality. I got the shoelaces untangled just as I awoke. Indoor planting of garden starts is just a few weeks away.

I’ve been reading my hand-written journals from May 1981 until July 1982. It was a year I worked as a writer in what is now a UNESCO City of Literature. I wasn’t a particularly good fit for Iowa City, yet the rest of the state seemed a primitive agricultural landscape, desolate and barren of intellectual engagement. As a young Iowan with two degrees, and aspiration to do better than merely survive, of course I chose to live in Iowa City. Besides my journal I didn’t do much writing during that time.

I did write a lot in my journal, which fills three volumes. I wrote frequently about how to escape the “institutional” realms of writing that included the University of Iowa Writers Workshop and other formal programs. I wanted to be a writer, yet not like “those writers.” My reading turned to familiar places as I dealt with the urge to write.

I was enamored of Tom Wolfe because his writing came from a place of reality. He and several others were parents of the New Journalism, publicized in his 1973 book. He immersed himself in his subjects, spending months in the field gathering facts through research, interviews, and observation. I didn’t have a lot of role models outside institutions, but Wolfe was one.

Another role model was William Carlos Williams, the pediatrician/poet. Prompted by a talk given by Williams’ publisher James Laughlin, I wrote this in my journal the next day:

William Carlos Williams: I’m not exactly sure where in my world view to put him. I think his position as doctor/poet, his molding of those two professions into one homogeneous lifestyle is admirable. But, to the extent that they remained two separate elements in his life, his life was a failure.

I think his poetry, at least as much as I have read, is poetry for the learned… yet one more attempt to elevate himself from among the people among whom he worked. It served him as a diversion from being a doctor. Well there may be people who would argue that diversion is necessary, the diversionary aspect of any activity adds connotations of the Victorian era for me. While James Laughlin states that the elements of Williams’ life were inseparable, he, too, is immersed in that ideology. He, too, is suspect.

I think I have a lot to learn from Williams, his problems notwithstanding. He is full of energy. He is above all else animated — filled with life. This is an example to be taken to heart. To be weighed and brought into my own life. (Personal Journal, Iowa City, Iowa. April 23, 1982).

I thought I could quickly dispatch the requisite words for my autobiography from this period in a couple thousand words. The more I read the journals, and invoke living memory, it is clear that year was more formative in my life. I wrote about writing, gardening, cooking, exercise, and about the meaning of being alone without feeling lonely. I will read this writing from 44 years ago again before my autobiography is done.