Stirring Point

The first words are always a chore. The cursor goads me to fill the page, yet the words trickle out like droplets from a pressureless hose. It’s clear that a change is due—a change I’ve long avoided. I must outline my writing. Dread!

Outlines, like diagramming sentences, are trigger points for those of us educated by nuns in the 1990s. If you were there, it’s likely that a shiver may be crawling up your spine as we speak. Diagramming was useless—a curricular folly—caught up in the educational zeitgeist of the day. And while forgetting the drivel the clergy taught me in Catholic school is a constant effort, I’m making strides, and the process has been mostly joyful. One teacher, though, managed to lodge her lessons deep. Three decades deep to be exact.

Sister Thomas Aquinas looked more like a linebacker than a nun. With broad shoulders, wide glasses and habitless, cropped hair, she towered over our 6th grade frames while we scribbled pages and pages of essays. She was a stickler for writing and most assignments required an outline. But she was also a proponent of free-writing exercises, from logging the day’s activities to the purging catharsis of letting the wandering mind wander. “Just write,” she’d say. So that’s what we did.

During the summer, she abandoned the “no-homework” rule and forced us to keep a journal. Our job was to fill one marble composition notebook with daily entries, each averaging around 200 words, or a page in length. This, of course, was an impossible task for any summer-respecting 11-year-old. Bikes required riding; trees begged to be climbed; ice cream beckoned to be gobbled. The summer was one giant feast and our job was to see how much we could swallow before the indulgence made us hurl.

I’d start the summer with good intentions. Day 1…check. Day 2…check. Day 3: Hello? Day 3? Whoops! Day 4? “I’m here!” and I’d write two entries. But by day 6 or 7, the last shards of discipline were hucked into the lake. I’d toss the notebook aside, piling dirty clothes over its edges like the sands of time atop the Rosetta Stone. 

A few days before the beginning of the school year, I’d lunge for the notebook and a half-chewed pencil, checking to see where I’d left off. “June 21st, 1993.” Crap! Only 3 days left to complete 60 entries. Immediately, I’d start scribbling half-truths and mindless dross in large, sloppy cursive, repetitive in tone and plagued with misspellings. For a time, I’d pull as much from memory as possible. What did I do three Tuesdays ago? I think we swam in Forest Glen, then rode our bikes to Orloski’s to buy candy, then…

What disorder. The exercise shifted from a daily diary to some postmodern recollection, cobbled together by a desperate pre-teen. I’d tell stories of swimming, playing football and watching movies. Then, I’d use my pencil like an egg beater and scramble the order for the following day: movies, swimming, football. Sometimes I’d invent an entire day at the beach, slowing the action to keep things simple. 

But I always kept the punctuation tight. Sister Thomas could smell commas, taste apostrophes and hear the squealing brakes of a period. Enough red pen had slashed through my exams to know she’d be searching for structure. To hell with the content or truth. Sturdy scaffolding would have to do.

On the first day of school, I’d hand in my notebook and hold my breath. A few days later, she’d pass them back to us and I’d clench my teeth while flipping through each page. 

Day 1✅

Day 2✅

Day 3✅

Day 4✅

It worked! She bought it. Every page had an identical check mark in the upper right-hand corner, noting that the day’s task had been completed. 

Of course, Sister Thomas knew that a percentage of the pages were fudged stories, with several entries written after the fact. I’m certain, though, that the extent of my procrastination would have caught her off guard. An 11-year-old that could amass such a blitzkrieg of nonsense in just 3 days? A true testament to first-rate laziness.

The daily discipline of writing, had I stuck to it, clearly would have made me a better writer. And she was right to care about consistency over content. She knew then, as I’ve come to learn, that developing compelling content is a time-hardened process tied to the maturation of voice. And to get there, one must stay committed to their craft and write. Just write.

31 years ago, I was faking my way through the last bit of my summer notebook, filling page after empty page with mindless drivel. And even though I flubbed the assignment, she got me to write, to create stories—to fill the pages. Sitting and writing counted for something, even if the outcome is not what she intended.

 I’m here now, Sister, and I’m getting my pages done. Now if I could just get myself to start on one of your precious outlines…