Letters from the Lauffice #2: Made to Create

Dear Cojourner,

The sun is out. That might seem like an unspectacular occurrence, but when you are in the dead of winter in the northern states, it feels like an extravagance. A very welcome one. 

I’ve felt its absence more pointedly this year than I have in others. It could be because a month ago I was sitting on a faded “Incredibles” beach towel at Magic Island on Oahu, burying my pale toes in the coarse sand while I laid on my back, soaking up the sunshine like a thirsty sponge. We had 10 straight days of sunshine and 80-degree temps. I guess I was setting myself up for disappointment. 

It came. The first three days back were glorious, despite the jet lag: seeing Shawn and the kids, reveling in the familiarity of home, even the snow that had piled up while I was gone left me smiling. And then the darkness descended. Not just the short, cold, cloudy days of a Pennsylvania winter, but the bigger shadow of “what’s the point?” 

Because reality had hit. There was an orange crust forming at the back of the toilet lid and the soles of the kids’ white socks were stained black every evening from the dirt on my floors and there was a grand total of rubbery celery stalks and miso paste in the refrigerator for dinner. That’s only for starters. 

If you want the main dish, this was it: my manuscript was going nowhere. For years I’d dreamed of getting an agent and, delight of delights, my dream was realized only five short months ago. But it turns out that 5 months is all it takes to turn a dream into a shriveled-up balloon gathering dust bunnies in the corner of a room. The only interest we’d had on my story showed up in my inbox during my Hawaiian vacation…and promised an advance barely large enough to take my family out for a celebratory dinner. 

So why was I doing this, when there was fungus growing on my toilet that appeared to have more growing potential than my readership? Still, I couldn’t deny this throbbing need to write that kept drumming away inside of me.

Ugh. But what’s the point?

It’s was just when this question started to blare in my eardrums louder than anything else in my life that a pinprick of light came breaking through the darkness. It was the fingertip of the Divine, and He was pointing the way. 

“Where?” you are probably asking, breathless with anticipation. 

To The Lauffice.

It was the gift this new house gave to me. In all the places we’ve lived during our nearly 23 years of marriage, I’ve never had an office. There wasn’t the space (good heavens, we have six children—housing them was hard enough!), but, also, I didn’t need one. Why? Reference the “to do” list above. You can’t get the work of scrubbing toilets and mopping floors and filling the refrigerator shelves done behind a desk, nestled in swivel chair. 

But you can write. 

And five years ago, I discovered I could do both. Let me reword that. I discovered that I needed to do both. So, I did. I wrote on the couch or in bed or on the front porch or on the floor, huddled next to the radiator. And then, six months ago, we moved here, and I have a room that personifies the diversity of who I am. 

Three-fourths of the wall space contains the trappings and conveniences of modern domesticity: a cupboard lined with pantry items; another for cleaning supplies; a closet stacked with spare sheets and pillowcases and an old vacuum cleaner that nearly keeps the door from latching; and the chipped metal bodies of a washer and dryer. Yes, this, my friend, was supposed to be the laundry room. That is, until I moved in. 

Because right now I am writing these words to the steady hum of a load of whites on the last spin cycle. But all I see is a card from a friend and fellow writer (no Hallmark pre-printed message there—just words of beauty and encouragement and love) perched on one corner of my flea market desk, and a drawing of a typewriter sketched by my daughter on the other. At the bottom of the picture, she wrote in a looping script: Maile Silva—Author.  

That, I declare, is true of all of us. 

Yes, we are mothers and fathers, friends and lovers, sales associates and program directors, retirees and college students…but we’re also writers. Even when the words on the page are dried up and cookie cutter and the queries come back as rejections and your agent’s emails keep starting out with some variant of the phrase, “I wish I had better news.” That’s when that old dogged phrase turns up the volume: what’s the point?

Well, my fellow cojourners, here’s the point. 

The point is that we were made to create. And I don’t know about you, but it makes me feel good when I do. It passes the time while I’m waiting in the kindergarten pick up line, mentally sketching out the backstory of the murderess in my newest project. It keeps me in the shower too long as I work out plot holes like a knotted shoe lace while staring blankly at the ingredient list on the back of the shampoo bottle. And at night, it makes me a kid again, falling asleep with a smile on my face and love stories and snappy dialogue dancing in my head. But I think Maria Semple said it best: it keeps me from becoming a menace to society…and my family…and myself. 

What’s the point? You’re a better version of you when you write. Make time for it between the grocery shopping and the laundry. 

“But how?” you might ask.

I’ve got some ideas…

But until next time, keep writing;)

Maile