Thursday, February 19, 2015

The Great Cargo of a Writer

“It is always a matter, my darling, of life or death…”

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. 




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