I am sitting under the covers with my jeans on, and I am thinking about my book — the one I may just write someday.
Sici is downstairs with a hoodie pulled over her head reading a book, surrounded by piles of tissue. Lala “quiet times” in her bedroom, dancing to bedtime music, finding her cozy place on the bottom bunk with blankets tucked in to the rails to make a cave.
I am remembering how I always wanted to write. First, when I thought I would be an author and illustrator — around the time when nearly every emotion could be conveyed in picture with a set of Garfield eyes and some brows, pointing like a “v” to represent anger or arched up to indicate surprise or extreme happiness. A girl would of course have lashes, boys — never.
Then when I mentored girls and young women and saw their courage and the fierceness in their eyes and learned their love and all they were capable of, I wanted to write it all down so I could celebrate them.
Then as I walked through painful places and held little hands and meowed at cats and saw the beauty of the world from my daughters’ height, I wanted to write so I could remember.
Wherever I was in life, writing made me see the world like a writer. The poetry of movement, the strings of feeling, the color of velvet like red onions, words falling from fingers like song.
As I try to make sense of these days strung like mysterious gifts, with questions and fewer answers, I want to write and keep writing and not stop.
____
Behind the headboard sits an old wire basket, and in it, books and magazines in a line like slouching teenagers. They are what I choose at night when my eyes aren’t too heavy after the routine or too weary from writing, staring at a screen.
By choice, my life is filled with words. So many words.
I speak many. Hear many, see them flying through space. Like feathers during a pillow fight, leaves in a storm.
I am my mother with her stacks of reading on the bedside table, and my daughters are me, wondering how I can possibly keep all those books straight.
But these books are all so different, I explain, just as she once did. They take me forever to read this way, as they did her, switching back and forth for mood and muse.
I take my emotional, spiritual pulse, open one to a folded note or glossy dog ear or to the homemade bookmark that sticks out like a little flag. I can tell if I’ve taken my temperature correctly.
Sometimes all a girl wants to do is look at pretty pictures. Or read of hope. Or be encouraged. Or feel swept away in story. And sometimes you don’t know until you’ve cracked open.
In the basket now,
Life Together by Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
Raising Great Kids by Drs. Henry Cloud and John Townsend.
Beach Music by Pat Conroy.
An African Prayer Book by Desmond Tutu.
10-Minute Bananagrams.
July and October issues of Country Living.
My Grandfather’s Blessings by Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D.
The Sixty-Eight Rooms by Marianne Malone.
Sici loved The Sixty-Eight Rooms and passed it on to me, partly thinking, I’m sure, that it couldn’t take me too long to finish. (She gives the really meaty ones to her papa to read, so they can talk more immediately about twists of plot and unlikely bad guys.)
And though it is taking me ages to finish, I feel a kindred spirit between 10-year-old me and 10-year-old her when I read it. What with the magical key and the shrinking to miniature size, and traveling through time.
If I were to write a book today, it might be filled with ten-year-old girls like us. Or it might have chapter headings marking the seasons of this family and our tree outside.
Like yesterday, what Lala declared the beginning of “hardhat season.” The wind blowing, and the horse chestnuts falling with dramatic thunks — on the shed, on the swingset, nearly us — as we played a board game in the sun by the raspberries. We thought about strapping on our bike helmets for protection. Later in the afternoon, J donned a hard hat, for real. Those things hurt, building speed on their way down before meeting unsuspecting skulls.
If I were to write a book today, it might be filled with page after page of character.
Like the man with the long white beard yellowed around the top of his mouth where the oxygen tubes ran, the life tank attached like a satchel at his hip. The man who spent 9 years in the State Pen himself and said of his monthly visits, “If I weren’t the kind of man to come back here, I would be the kind of man to come back here.”
I’d write about a grandmother I’ve never met but imagine dancing across a wooden stage. And the dear one who all the kids at the elementary school called Grandma just like she’s their own because she smells like lavender and gives squishy hugs and her hands are bumpy with veins, soft like silk.
I might write about the young man with the newsboy cap, who one hundred years ago stamped the fresh cement by our house, with a date and his name, misspelling the street’s name. And there it’s etched. For a hundred years.
Who knows when the book will come, but I’ve got to believe it will.
Stretching.
Slouching.
Etching.
Breathing.
Seeing.
Words moving through this life, through then and now, through pages.
Floating until they land.
The gorgeous and soulful writer, Amber at The Runamuck, is leading an exploration of voice in writing. This week’s began with the prompt “THE BOOK.”
I’m also linking up, as I do many Tuesdays, with the community of “Just Write,” at The Extraordinary Ordinary. Heather’s piece today is an exquisite piece of truth-telling on asking for help. Do go read it.
Connecting through the power of stories written, spoken and lived
I love your voice. It makes me settle the way I do in a swing, not really bound, but soothed by the sound and the repeat of the motion.
Your words are clean. They don’t stumble. They always break a smile on my face.
There is a book or twelve in you. I look forward to one being on my bedside.
Oh, Kim. Thank you so much for your words. Wow, I am honored. It is a gift to hear how others read you. Your words to me today are treasures. So enjoying this exploration of voice with you.
Oh Ashley. This is fabulous. It flows, it packs a punch with few words.
I too want to write someday. About this journey…I keep journaling, knowing that someday they will be a book because God is taking me somewhere and I don’t want to forget it and I want to write it down so others can see…He’s always working.
You’re right, Krystle. He is working right alongside you, as you are….loving, tending, writing, encouraging. Bless you. I know your book will come! (And those journals will be treasure troves, for sure.)
I will be first in line to buy your book, read your book and help promote your book. Love your words, your heart, your bedside bask and stack, and your eye for people and nuance. So happy to know you, my friend who loves words as much as I.
Your belief in me means so much, Elizabeth. And you’ve got a lot of amazing words yourself, lovely. I believe in you.
Love your words…love you…will buy the book, give the book, keep a stack of them at my door to share with others. So thankful for your gifts and your courage to write.
Thank you, my friend! I might be able to get you a bulk discount. :-)
I am looking to the day when I am able to pick up your book, written so thoughtfully, in that singular, inimitable prose, which compels us to think and ponder. Your ability to communicate so clearly and passionately will keep your readers spellbound. Do I hear Bestseller?
There’s a proud Papa. :-)
Oh my. This, too, is beautiful and soulful and… special. I love your way with words, and I resonate with your musings as a woman who loves words and books. Thank you. I followed you over from Heather’s blog today – so glad I did.
Amber, thank you so much for your comment. A delight to meet you through words and recognizing everyday moments.
Oh Ashley! I already see your book on my nightstand. It sits on top of the others, with its slightly bent corners, it’s bookmarks, passages underlined and hearts in the margins. Of all the books I return to, this is the book that calms the winds in my mind. You speak truth to me Ashley, uncluttered, unlabored truth. I couldn’t possibly be more grateful that you are doing what you were born to do, walking through life, heart wide open, with feathers falling from your fingers onto paper.
all love, mama
Oh, Mama…thank you. Just thank you.
Yes. You dream it. It is closer than you think. I mean it.
Thanks, my friend. You would know. :-)
I echo other comments in their belief that one day we will have “Ashley’s book” in our hands…what a treasure of imagery it will be! Love you friend!
Thank you, Becca!
Oh, great piece. You have so much talent and impact through your writing, it is amazing. The thought of you writing a book and being wildly popular- it just fits. Can’t wait to read what story comes…..
Thanks for your encouragement all along the way. And bless you, Rachael, in the life-changing work you are putting your hands to each day. It means so much.
I love this. Cannot pick a favorite part. Please, please write that book. Until then, I will print out this post for my bedside.
Wow, thank you, Quiet Girl. That is a special place, by that bedside. I’m so honored you’d want me there.
I’ve come visiting from Amber’s twitter feed, and oh, how glad I am! I really resonated with that ache to write, how the words fill my days, the stories always swirling. I near-drowned in that need over the last year and had to step away from it all, and now Amber’s encouragement (and yours) is making me reconsider what I want when I write.
I can’t pick a favorite part of this post, either- I saw myself in the slouching books on the nightstand, your girls and their places of comfort….so very lovely! I’m glad I stopped by.
Joy, thank you so much for visiting and for your comment. I can so relate to the near-drowning, too, and the need to step away when it becomes too consuming. I encourage you to keep asking yourself those good questions. Yes, what do you want when you write? To tell story, to capture those moments of your days and hold them for a moment before releasing them?… For me, among those things and so many others, recognizing that I write to reflect facets of God, that I write for his glory, changed this journey for me. There are so many motivations (attention, followers, accolades, validation and on and on), and there are certainly seasons, but truly knowing the answer and reminding ourselves of it over and over again, brings joy and peace to the laying down of words. Bless you in this journey, Joy. It is good.
I just keep wanting to say “Wow” after every post I read. Thank you! This time I read with a smile on my face that won’t go away. No fat tears tonight, just quiet joy at your words and connection to us all. :) Best to you in your writing travels. I always loved to write when younger but it seems stuffed away somehow now, like in a quiet attic. Maybe someday . . you never know. :)
Thank YOU, e! So happy to bring a lingering smile to your face. What a lovely compliment. I will pray for you, e. I bet there are some treasures in that trunk in the attic. May God unlock the trunk, shake out the dust and allow you to finger all the beautiful textures and folds when the time is write. In the meantime, you are LIVING a story! Bless you.
Late to the party, but coming via Amber’s. I love your writing. These sentences especially:
Wherever I was in life, writing made me see the world like a writer. The poetry of movement, the strings of feeling, the color of velvet like red onions, words falling from fingers like song.
were a gift to me today. thank you.
Thank you, Tanya. Makes my heart so glad to know you were blessed. Thankful for your presence here today.