Instant Human

(just add writing)

Ashland, Oregon. Thirty-eight degrees and sunny. Perfect for a mile walk up to Bloomsbury Books, our local bookstore, established in 1980. Bloomsbury has a long history here, with book signings, lectures, and even a monthly quiet reading group for locals, which is a really delightful way to spend time alone with others. I first came across the store in 1993, when I visited Ashland with my then-boyfriend/now-husband, and at one of those first visits, I bought one of my favorite books, The Cloister Walk, by Kathleen Norris. The Cloister Walk is an amazing poetic look at words, Benedictines, monastic life, and community. I return to that book over and over again.

Now that I live here, it’s to the bookstore itself that I make a pilgrimage. Bloomsbury is located in the middle block of our downtown main street, an old building with brick walls and wooden stairs, and shelves and stacks of new and lovely books, little gifts, and writerly paraphernalia. It is a cozy shop newly owned by some friends of ours who have brought and are making their own.

Upstairs is a coffee shop with cozy chairs, warm lighting, and, of course, treats ranging from quiche to croissants, as well as a wide variety of coffees and teas.

Today, I’m meeting a friend for writing practice. This is one of those friendships that took a while in the making. We circled around each other for several years, never quite finding the place our friendship would root, but finally found each other truly at a writing workshop out on the Oregon coast last fall. Hosted by the talented writer Melissa Matthewson, the workshop was truly out of this world and reinvigorated something in me that I’d feared was lost. My friend and I decided we’d start meeting in person to practice with writing prompts gleaned from the workshop. Indeed, this essay itself was based on writing about writing prompts, so I figured I’d just take it all the way and share it here.

Impulse drives me. That’s silly to write because anyone who knows me knows that I’ve got more of a touch of the ADHD (officially diagnosed at 55 and everything), and it can take a bit to get myself truly focused. Sometimes, being alone means my brain rebels, and I wind up crafting to-do lists instead of crafting an essay. Thus, writing with a friend. It’s an accountability thing, in part. And in other parts, it’s just parallel play. Meet, drink coffee, write, talk, listen, write, talk, listen. Maybe I’m borrowing concentration from other people? Certainly, it’s more fun to get things started with someone, even if I have to try and edit alone.

The exercise is as important as the result. I learned this about myself early on. I often enjoyed the rehearsal process more than the actual performance, back when I was doing theater. Possibly because there were so many options prior to locking down staging, acting choices, costumes, and music. Possibly because the stakes seemed lower? Possibly because I actually have a fear of being perceived, and rehearsal was somehow less…visible.

I’ve not been writing as much as I’d like, and certainly not sharing what I’ve been writing. Times have been very rough the past six weeks, both personally and in the world, in our country. I’m beyond distressed about it.

In any case, we came, drank coffee, wrote things, and felt more human. Which is all one can hope for right now.

Thanks for reading and sharing. If you feel so inclined, please give a gift to Neighbors Helping Neighbors, a group in the Twin Cities that is helping with rent, food, necessities and more during what can only be described as a hostile takeover. Thanks to Anne Helen Peterson’s Culture Study for turning me on to it.