It was Monday morning, it was snowing, and for me, it was good writing weather.
I’m not sure why exactly. Mostly, it was a feeling. One stemming from the calm that came with watching snowflakes fall noiselessly outside while I sipped hot coffee in a quiet room with my dog at my feet.
And also from the lingering pleasure I’d gotten over the weekend from reading a well-crafted story by a talented author whose imagination and style I admire.
Plus from a desire to resume the blogging I had paused more than two years previously—after writing sixty-two posts—because I wanted to devote all my writing time to a fourth novel I’d been researching. When I turned back to my keyboard that Monday morning some time back, however, it wasn’t for either of these things.
A few years ago, in a slim volume titled Why Write? A Master Class on the Art of Writing and Why It Matters, which I mentioned in an earlier blog, University of Virginia literature professor Mark Edmundson, a prolific author himself, explored more than two dozen reasons. He considered the question especially important at a time when people are reading less and favoring information over enlightenment and entertainment over inspiration.
Edmundson’s reasons to write range from the practical to the pleasurable. They include to strengthen the mind—writing is thinking, he argues and I agree—to grow, to fail, to change the world, to get even, to make some money (though relatively few writers do), to learn something, to stay sane, to discover beauty and truth, to learn to be alone, to remember, and to have the last word.
He also says, as do almost all other writing authorities, that one of the most important reasons to write, if not the most important, is to have fun. I agree except when writing is part of one’s job. Even then, however, it should be satisfying.
Obviously, I’ve now returned to blogging, chiefly for fun but also at times to register a plea for change. I also have an updated website, which please check out. So, what happened with the novel? It’s still where I left it soon after I paused blogging. Once I did that, I realized that I needed to do two other things before getting back to it.
The first task was to gather decades of professional papers and arrange and pack them for donation to appropriate archives. Which I’ve done and will say more about some other time. The second, flowing from the first, was to write recollections of my long journey as a public historian.
The gathering took the better part of my available time for a year. Writing the recollections then reviewing and revising them where necessary required even more time, but I’m almost done. I started the recollections chiefly to create an archival record. I suppose you could call that both writing to remember and writing to have the last word. In any case, several public history colleagues encouraged me to consider publication, which I’m now exploring.
Will that happen? Yes, I believe so, one way or another. One friend with whom I discussed this reminded me of a poster that once hung on my museum office wall and now hangs behind my desk at home. In it, a baseball player holds a giant pencil like a baseball bat, and the caption reads, “Swing for the fences. You can’t hit one out of the park without getting up to bat.”
I’m up to bat, and if I make an out in the first inning, I’ll stay in the lineup and take another swing later, or more if needed.
Meanwhile, in addition to an occasional blog—some related necessarily and unfortunately to the sad state of national affairs—I’m looking at returning to the unfinished fourth novel. Chronologically, it follows novel two instead of novel three. There’s a character in number two with whom I’d like to settle a score. Will I get it done? Time will tell.
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