Writing Her Back to Life

The Sound of My Paper

I’m re-reading, and really, for the first time, actually absorbing, Julia Cameron’s book “The Sound of Paper.” It’s a book about exploring the creative self, especially through writing. Her style is gentle, invitational, and very persistent. I’m underlining, and dog-earing. I’m trying to take it slow enough to really let it soak in.

There is this past version of myself that I’m talking with, almost rekindling an old flame with. The me of my 20s who kept a small notebook in her purse in case some spectacular people-watching needed recording, or some strike of inspiration had to be captured. That version of me, she’d take herself out to coffee shops, dinners, or art museums-“taking the Artist on an Artist’s Date” Cameron would call it. I’d collect little pieces of humanity and then write them up with some metaphor, and share it out to the world, or at least my little world.

I’ve judged that version of myself for several years now, while simultaneously envying the living hell out of her. I’ve recalled her with equal parts admiration and shrewdness. I’ve laughed off her curiosity and labeled her inquisitiveness as naive.

I’ve been hard on her because I miss being her.

My therapist recently described the experience like this: “When we are in contraction, we are really hard on and judgmental of our former expansions.”

That version of me was deeply silly, so full of depth, and saw almost everything as a beauty worth writing about. And then she got hurt. She met heartbreak. Well, first she met her very short term college boyfriend, and then she met heartbreak. It was in that pain, that I escorted her out. I believe if I had let her stay, she would have written through that pain. She would have let its shaggy edges spill all over the page. She would have gotten us out, but I didn’t trust her enough to give her a chance. I didn’t know how to let that version of me expand with the pain, so I contracted into heart mending survival and only let her peek out here and there when I had something really beuatiful and really curated to write or share. And even there, she surprised me still.

I believe that’s why Sated Soul has meant so much to me. This space here has served as a neutral meeting ground for her and I to co-create again. That version of me has strolled in here, like the ex that meets up for coffee while they are in town for work. And God, I have to admit, she’s doing well, looking great, and I am interested in seeing if we should give this another shot.

In The Sound of Paper, Cameron asks “If I found myself and my thoughts interesting, what might I try?” I’ve been chewing on that question for long before I knew that was the question on which I was chewing. I do find myself fascinating... so what might I try?

I think my first step is to be more honest about the feelings I have for that past version of self. To tell her I miss her, that I admire her, that she was onto something, and that I’m sorry it took me this long to reach out and repair the rupture. I think I also have to let her, and me, be a little wild. Several days recently, I’ve had coffee after 12:00, and that’s a very “former Jesie” thing to do. (I’m aware that’s not all that wild, but I have to start somewhere)

Back to this question of what might I try. If I leaned into finding myself and my thoughts interesting, I’d write a book. Maybe a collection of my pieces, with some twists and turns and surprises in there. I don’t know what it would be, or what it would be called, but I know it would be honest work that shares my heart and my shadow and my humor and my dreams. I know that I’d like to go to spaces where people gathered to hear me read little parts of it. And I’d arrive early to sign some copies in the lobby, and I’d have a sign that reads “no photography” like David Sedaris does. And I’d read it in this phenomenally captivating honey-like voice of mine, and I’d wear outfits that are so “me” and when I walked on stage, I’d take my shoes off before settling into a chair where I’d cross my legs under me, clear my throat, and say “gosh, does it mean the world to me that you came tonight.” And the event would end promptly at 8:30 pm so that I could still be in bed at a reasonable (to me) time.

And in that moment, both versions of me would be present: the dreamer who always believed in the possible, and the realist who paved the way to get there.