Writing Vacation (Part I)

Sometimes it helps to remember particular dates. Last year I started to keep a journal days before a significant surprise occurred in my mind. I meant to write life, but mind appeared on the screen instead. I pause before welcoming another thought that seems ready for me, and I drink from the cup of coffee alongside the laptop on this table that has become my temporary writing space. I’ve written what seems to have appeared on its own, while another part of me wants to censor what becomes the contents of my sentences. This small office with windows facing Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains has another creative center, which only now I’m imagining, although I can turn my head to one side and there it is. It’s a simple thing, a couch, which now that I stop and rest my eyes on it, I realize must have been difficult to fit into the elevator and then through the door behind me. I picture the woman who sits behind this couch during psychoanalytic sessions help move the couch from the elevator into this consulting room. Mary has been my psychoanalyst for a year. She’s part of the fiction that I’m starting to create in her office while she’s away on vacation, which is also fiction, since I’m sure she wouldn’t allow me to be here in her absence. It feels natural to imagine myself in her creative working space for a week, silent inside myself while I create noise with my sentences. A sentence comes to me, which I can see myself creating on the screen on my first morning of a much needed writing vacation: Each time I free-associate on Mary’s couch, I experience verbal and nonverbal surprises that remind me of writing sentences that somehow come together to form a narrative. The idea of keeping a journal came to me last June when I was feeling that my writing lacked spontaneity. Three days later I surprised myself by contacting a psychoanalyst, and the following week I was in Mary’s office for the first time, which must also have been when she became involved in my writing as an unconscious inner object. In other words, that’s when she became a permanent part of my inner world. It’s mid morning, and I’m seated at the desk in front of the windows with a clear view of the Olympic Mountains, and I wonder how many coffees I’ll need before I’m comfortable in this temporary writing space. I hear a knock on the door, and then I’m speaking with Mary, who I thought was on vacation. We decide to cross the street for a coffee and to talk about writing and psychoanalysis. I remind myself that these sentences are fiction, or so I imagine.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s