Starting Over

 (Yes, there are a few parallels to the Easter season we just passed through, but I will let you draw those for yourself. Revision also connects, but you're smart enough to figure that out on your own, too.)

A few days ago, I started a new writer’s notebook. Nothing fancy, just a marble-covered college ruled composition book. And then I looked back at the beginning of the green-covered notebook I had finished the previous week and noticed a few similarities between the two entries (more than the not-too-tidy scribbling).

As scribbled in a brand new notebook April 3, 2025…

First tracks! As a freshman at Ricks College, one of my roommates, Casey Sullivan, pointed out the simple joy that comes from making first tracks in the snow, an untouched carton of ice cream, or even a tub of butter. Since then, I have relished making first tracks wherever I can. My own kids will occasionally shout out “First tracks!” when opening a new jar of peanut butter or a fresh package of toilet paper, and I can’t help but think of making a good first impression as one of the simple pleasures in life.

You can only do it once, or so the saying goes, so why not enjoy the times you can do it? Take advantage of new situations. I suppose if we want to make more good first impressions, we have to put ourselves in more situations that are new, unfamiliar, or something that contains some type of newness to it. Something like a new class roster every semester, new clients or customers, or for me (and countless others), fresh school supplies like unsullied notebooks, packages of pre-sharpened pencils, or unbroken seals on paper reams or journals or those markers that smell like plastic fruits that everyone fought over back in fourth grade.

There’s just so much life in starting over. No wonder spring is such a popular time of year. Nature renews herself. And the rest of us just try to catch up by making our own tracks, even if they are not first.

As scribbled in a brand new notebook February 23, 2021…

Ah! A fresh notebook! Well, not any more. The moment I sullied its innocence with the first stroke of ink, the limitless possibilities suddenly had a limit. My words, my thoughts brought to life via pen, established boundaries and brought definition to the previously blank slate—tabula rasa no more.

No, this slate now has a purpose, a space to gather my thoughts, my scribbles, and attempt to permit my mind to wander and wonder before solidifying for time and all eternity.

Ha! Of course I could rip out this page and start over, but the impressions left on the subsequent pages will remain. The cover can never be unbent. The remnant of the ripped pages would reveal that something had gone wrong.

Still, there is room to right those wrongs, explore the inner recesses of my mind to reveal to the world the patterns (or randomness) of my brain. Writing IS that powerful. Writing is thinking. It helps create permanence where none previously existed.

It’s hard to take back words once they have been spoken, but it’s even harder once they have been written. Mean tweets, anyone? Confusing text messages? Even honest mistakes result in crucifixion sometimes. (See also “Sweet” by John Triska.)

You may not find it all that interesting, but I seem to derive joy from starting over. Side note: I also have two different poems in drafting stages that talk about starting over, repentance, and snow. They are not nearly ready to be shared, but perhaps sometime they’ll make an appearance in public. I suppose that me, composing this post, and trying again to work on my writing is another form of starting over. However, it’s a little late for me to make a first impression on y’all. You know what kind of a wreck I am. Still, I can ask your forgiveness and patience as I try to start over and do and be a little better.

  

Another Call to Keep Writing Thanks to Nikki Giovanni

I love listening to Nikki Giovanni tell her story about her poem "A Bench (for Toni Morrison)." Today, as I read this poem to inspire my students to scribble a few words, it kicked my butt back into gear to write. After each of my failures to sustain a consistent writing habit, I inevitably receive a call to repentance. "A Bench" was mine today. (Poem all the way at the end of the post.)

Each time I pick up my pen from where and when I last dropped it, I tend to scratch out a few paragraphs (like these), often teeming with self-deprecating chastisement, and then I set a goal or two (usually one), and then I start anew in my quest to be a more consistent writer. As you now witness, my pitiful public penance is now penned (vomit-inducing alliteration very much intended this evening), and I get to move forward. However, this time I am not making any grand promises I know I will not be able to keep. I know that my professorial and ecclesiastical responsibilities reduce my personal time, but I do want to write more frequently. I now teach the Teaching Writing for Secondary English Teachers course at my university, and I know that I need to lead by example. I know that only writing produces text.

So here is my conundrum: I can squeeze in small chunks of time, but I need to be smart about where I direct my writing efforts. I have a few thoughts, but would genuinely appreciate some feedback from my teeny audience. (That's y'all.) Where should I direct my efforts?

Option A: random personal narratives and thoughts (as previously expressed on this blog and other random locations).

Option B: focus on more important life-defining moments in my personal history.

Option C: finish up the scraps of poetry I have been drafting over the past several years (or at least some of them).

Option D: look to write something professionally (teacher-practitioner style).

Option E: just write curriculum.

Option F: none of the above.

Let me know what you think, and I'll take Ms. Giovanni's advice. (Poem posted below.)

“A Bench” (for Toni Morrison)

benches aren’t just pieces of furniture

sure

we find them at rest stops where birds have stopped over

and truck drivers have pulled aside

to smoke a cigarette

(no matter how bad they are for you)

and yes

in fabulous museums we find

benches decorated sometimes

with gold or bronze

and the faces of the famous

sometimes we even find benches

among the poor

which are simply logs put across the other

or sometimes just bricks

piled and put deeply enough into the earth

to stabilize those who need comfort

 

but benches are actually

a metaphor

they are friends we call on sad days

they are two old ladies who bring

Duck Eggs when your Grandmother passes

 

they are a friend’s mother

who makes a quilt when she hears

you have lung cancer

and mostly they are the voice

on the other end of the phone

who says “Write”

when you are so sad at losing your mother

“Write” when you don’t know where to go

“Write” when the only person who can read you

is on a Cross

“Write”

because it is your job

“Write”

 

---Nikki Giovanni

 

 

Only Writing Produces Text: A Call to Repentance

This morning a local church leader challenged those listening to reflect on their strengths, the things that they did well. He went on to ask everyone to reflect on the things that bring us closer to God. However, my ears tuned out at that point, and I listened more to what my heart was saying. The parable of the talents came to mind, especially the poignant conclusion: “For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance; but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath” (Matthew 25:29). 

(taken from https://thescribblingssite.wordpress.com)

As I have noted on prior occasions, I do not feel like I have many strengths. I am just the Joe-of-all-trades, master of none—the quintessential Average Joe. Perhaps, instead of five talents, or two, or even one, I was given a couple of farthings or pennies, to carry on the Biblical metaphor. Regardless, I do not want to be the unprofitable servant. I have been given a few gifts, and I need to do better at improving those talents. I can’t squander what I have been given, or else it will be taken away.

I feel a little like the saints under more modern day condemnation—“But with some I am not well pleased, for they will not open their mouths, but they hide the talent which I have given unto them, because of the fear of man. Wo unto such for mine anger is kindled against them….Thou shalt not idle away thy time, neither shalt thou bury thy talent that it may not be known” (Doctrine & Covenants 60: 2, 13). My "talent" has been hidden for a while.

Now, I am not saying that I am going to be struck by lightning (I hope) any time soon, but consider this my call to repentance. “Why?” you ask.

Lately I have not been writing.

(taken from https://www.raindance.org)

And as my good friend Melissa pointed out to me again the other day, if you teach writing, you should write also. A sermon I have not been practicing lately. (Gulp.)

I teach writing (Composition I and II at BU), but I have not been writing. You may have noticed this, as I have not been posting anything. 

So I’m calling myself on the proverbial carpet. Forgive me. I need to write more. As I am well aware, only writing produces text. My doctoral chair pointed out that simple truth as I began my dissertation, and I often impart its wisdom to my students, but every once in a while, like right now, I need to apply it myself.

It’s not that I haven’t thought about writing—I have. A lot. I just haven’t done much about it. And I'm not going to pass off my laziness or fear or whatever my problem is on simple writer's block.

Here and now, I declare that I will no longer squander my talents, as meager as they are. I am going to write more. I am going to share more. I am going to bother you more with my writing, about my writing, and perhaps even in my writing.

With some luck and determination I might actually turn my penny into a talent.

(borrowed from Bill Watterson)