The words above
comprise one of the last lines of the poem “The Writer,” by Richard Wilbur. I
first stumbled upon Mr. Wilbur’s poem in my 20th Century
Contemporary American poetry course during my senior year of college. The poem
is narrated by a mother whose daughter is a writer. The mother describes
listening to the intermittent clicking of a typewriter upstairs as her daughter
struggles to write a story. Feeling the hardship her daughter faces in being a
writer, she compares her to a starling that was trapped in a room in their
house once. The bird kept slamming into walls as it struggled to find the open
window. He would fall to the ground but get back up every time. Eventually, the
bird found his way to freedom.
While it struck me at
the time, I have only grown in appreciation of the poem’s words. They perfectly
depict the immense struggle, commitment, and sacrifice it takes to be a writer.
I’ve thought a lot about this poem in recent weeks and felt the true weight of
each word of it.
February has become a
challenging month for me as a writer—made even more so last week. February is
the month that this world parted ways with two beautiful souls whose lives I
helped commemorate with the written word. February is the month I was
enlightened to my true purpose as a writer and was bestowed with the honor of
carrying out that purpose. February reminds me to stay the course….no matter
how difficult….because the words any of us write are infinitely more important
than we can possibly realize in the moment.
On February 11, my
friend Larry Kucsulain lost his battle with brain cancer. He was 32 years old
and left behind a wife and 2 small boys….one of whom was just born in
September. I only came to know Larry last May when I wrote an article on him
for the Helena Vigilante, but he inspired me beyond words. An avid skateboard
enthusiast himself, Larry was a passionate advocate for the skateboard community
in Helena. He was a mentor to the young skaters in town and worked to transform
the stereotypes people have about skaters. He made sure the kids knew that not
only is skateboarding a serious sport but it can teach you how to be successful
in all facets of life. Larry was beyond grateful for my article. I was
beyond grateful for meeting him.
Not long after my
article came out I nominated Larry for a contest the Independent Record was
holding. The IR was looking to recognize 20 outstanding leaders in the Helena
community under the age of 40. I knew Larry had to be on that list. I
wrote a lengthy explanation of why he should be chosen and before I knew it I
was opening the paper to see his smiling face in the article among the winning
nominations. By writing my article and nominating him for the contest, I helped
spread the word about all of the good work he was doing. I was persistent, like
the starling, to use my gift as a writer to make sure all of Helena knew who
Larry was. In doing so, I played a role in helping immortalize Larry and his
life forever.
Hearing about Larry’s
passing was incredibly hard for me given the time frame and circumstances.
February 21st this year marks the three year anniversary since
my friend Joey lost his sister, Theresa, to Leukemia. She was 31 years old and
left behind two-year-old twin daughters. When she passed, Joey asked me to help
him write a eulogy for her. That piece of writing quickly became the most
significant of my career. Preserving a small piece of the greatness that was
her life opened my eyes to the true power and glory of the written word.
The situations between
Larry and Theresa were disturbingly similar and unfair in ways I still can’t
make peace with God on. I had the honor of meeting Larry and sharing his story
while he was still alive. I never had the privilege to meet Theresa and when I
shared her story it was in remembrance of a life already over. When I first
heard the news that Larry had passed I broke down crying—not just because he
was gone but because I finally made the connection in my mind between him and
Theresa and the fact that writing was what connected me to both. I am eternally
tied to them in a way I can’t possibly explain to anyone. God may have given me
the gift of writing but they gave me the purpose for that gift.
I have this belief
that writing can heal---heal the writer, heal the reader, heal the person the
writing is about. Nothing I wrote could have saved Larry or Theresa, but I like
to believe the words I wrote about each of them will, in time, offer healing to
the loved ones they left behind. The individuals I have had the blessing of
writing about are doing far greater things in this world than I am. But in
helping share their stories and greatness, I get to be a companion forever on
their journey. To Teresa and Larry, I carry each of you with me with every word
I write.
Writing is always a
matter of life and death. The words we write can be the difference between keeping
an idea, a belief, a memory, a relationship, a dream, an accomplishment or even
a life vibrant and a part of us forever. It is critical that the ones who have
the gift to write never turn away from it because the rest of the world needs
us. This reality is what makes the life of the writer laden with such “great
cargo.” When you come across a writer please wish them a lucky passage for me.
The true ones will smile back at you in gratitude.
The Writer by Richard Wilbur
In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.
I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.
Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.
But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which
The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.
I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash
And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark
And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or at the desk-top,
And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,
It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.
It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.
