A Brief Interruption in Regular Programming

Journey in Search of Bridges Bonus Column 14

Photo by Rory McKeever on Unsplash

Two days ago I asked Perplexity AI question after question about how political moderates can be heard. I asked multiple follow-up questions. Minutes became hours. With each AI answer, I became more discouraged.

I sighed and printed the 41 pages of answers and footnotes. I reread them, highlighting and underlining.

At this point of column development I normally use the highlighted material, go to the footnoted articles and begin drafting. However, my designated writing time had been devoured by research.

Yesterday, when my alarm rang, I put on my robe and slipper socks and went straight to my desk to read the AI notes and begin a draft. I dozed off three times without producing a note. I stumbled toward the living room, set my phone timer for 30 minutes, and collapsed onto the couch.

When the alarm buzzed, I shut it off, slumped up to sitting and dozed off again in tired discouragement. Eventually Marlo touched my shoulder and asked if I was still sick from a cold I caught on a recent trip.

“Not really,” I said, “I’m tired, sad and mad.” I hastily reassured him, “Not at you, though. I really don’t know why.” Perhaps the black dog (Winston Churchill’s metaphor for his depression), a dog I normally keep at bay with medication, was approaching in the shadows.

As I answered Marlo, my brain roused to remember an upcoming morning meeting in our home. I surveyed suitcases and other trip debris littering the floor between the entry and meeting room. Adrenaline kicked in, and the black dog retreated as I showered, dressed for guests and cleared the clutter.

Throughout the afternoon he kept his distance as I trimmed houseplants for a friend, carried home those trimmings and potted them. When they have rooted, I will donate them to a local thrift store to help fund services for Central Iowans in need.

For decades, working with plants has supplemented my antidepressants. So has writing. Today, however, whenever I consider working on a column, the black dog creeps closer. I don’t write a word.

By day’s end, the black dog has almost disappeared, but I haven’t written a single word. He has growled at me only when I try to return to my desk

Then he’s growled, “You’re not REALLY a writer. You are just a Wounded Child, aching to be visible. The Wounded Child pleads, ‘See me, Mommy, please.’

I acknowledge his truth. “Yes, in childhood I was too young to understand my need for nurture. I didn’t know my mother’s wounds blinded her to all hurts but her own.”

As I’ve learned over the decades, I challenge him with facts. “Yes, my wounded child lives on. She sits around the campfire with my other selves. However, I am no longer that child. ‘Competent writer’ is also one my inner selves”

The dog shifts his growling to a different pitch. “You are no expert on politics. In this series, you only write what you learn through research. Others have far more expertise on political bridges than you. What makes you think you have anything worth saying? Why would anyone listen to you? They won’t. Remember, the number of email responses has plummeted.”

I try to challenge him again. “Yes, this politics topic is the hardest writing I have ever done. Yes, it requires research. And yes the email downturn and recent research discouraging, but …”

I fall silent, and then I offer him a bone. “I am willing to quit writing this column if I sit down at this computer for two days and no words flow, not even a ‘shitty first draft.’” (I borrow the phrase from writer Anne Lamott.)

I remind him I have forgiven my mother many times, and will do so each time my wounded child appears. I wonder if his growling is not my lack of neurotransmitters but a normal response to a temporary writing roadblock. After all, Competent Writer is still part of the campfire circle.

Tomorrow morning, energized by a latte, I will prime the writing pump with freewriting as author Katherine Paterson suggests. I will keystroke one word after another laying down sentences wherever those 41 pages about moderate voices lead me. If no words flow, I’ll start again the next day. If, then too, the wall remains, I will end the column.

But I will not stop writing. My Competent Writer is stronger than my wounded child. The writer grows. The Wounded Child shrinks.

I leave my desk for the day. The black dog leaves the house.

You ask, “Will the next Journey in Search of Bridges column be the last?”

I do not know.

Stay tuned, and we’ll find out together.

…

Carol Van Klompenburg is a columnist, author and speaker from Pella, Iowa. More information about her work is at www.carolvanklompenburg.com. Readers can email her at info@carolvanklompenburg.com.