Searching for a topic to write about, I came across this quote by Annie Dillard. She claims that a writer looking for a subject never writes about a unique thought or a “fascination with something no one else understands.” But they should.
“There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.”
So here it goes, my pet quirk I find astonishing: It is the primal rush I feel coursing through my body after grinding through my morning planks and push-ups. A victory for animal lust against my usual cerebral complacency.
But it is more than that. It is connected to two of the most rewarding pursuits of my life: building stone walls and writing. They have more in common than you might think, and both stimulate my primal lust.
In my prime, I enjoyed doing stone work on steamy hot, high-humidity days. I’d be pumped up, dripping with sweat. Rocks would fly into place as if they had a mind of their own. I was on a stone mason’s high!
Writing is more complicated, and the process is more intellectual, happening when my brain releases happy endorphins after the perfect word or phrase falls effortlessly into place. But still, there are many commonalities.
Before building a stone wall, I’d spend time on the site, studying the topography and selecting a stone type that matches the surroundings. Then I’d come up with a design for the wall and search for rocks. When I found a good fit, I’d negotiate a price to buy them, usually from farmers, and haul them to the job site.
On the first day of construction, my airy imagination met the density of indigenous stone. It was time to get real. I was starting over with a blank slate until I set the first rock. That first stone was the most difficult to place; then that one determined the second, and so on from there.
Some days, the rocks had a mind of their own. I’d pick one up, and it would know where it wanted to go. On other days, the stones would rebel and refuse to comply with my wishes, often causing me to throw them aside in disgust.
Additionally, hindrances were always present, depending on the time of year, including rain, mud, frost, snow and swarms of black flies. And, on top of that, picky customers, slithering snakes, stinging wasps and busted fingers; there was always something.
But when the wall is finally done and standing tall, all the trials and tribulations along the way make it feel more precious, a testament to blood, sweat and tears.
When writing, of course, words take the place of stones. One big difference is that the shape and texture of rocks available at a given location were limited and hard to find. Conversely, words are plentiful, an almost unlimited supply. The difficulty is ferreting out the right one.
Like with stonewalls, some days the words just fall into place, like well-trained soldiers. But in the beginning, facing the blank page, you’re like a football player starting the game by punting the ball. In his mind, he has a vision of blasting it far down the field.
But one never knows. He might squib off the side of his foot, causing it to fly sideways out of bounds for a penalty. Wherever the ball ends up, that determines the real start of the game, which in turn determines the location of the next move and so on until momentum builds and the contest takes on a life of its own.
Like fitting rocks into a stonewall, some days, none of your words fit, no matter how many times you try. You give up and decide to sleep on it, perhaps having a beer, maybe several.
Starting fresh the next day, you suddenly have an epiphany, and, like magic, visualize all the pieces falling into place. Pretty soon, you’re done with the piece and feel damn good about it. You’ve overcome nagging insecurity and crippling doubt.
The primal lust comes bursting through. You feel like the New England Patriots after winning their first Super Bowl. You can’t believe you actually did it.
That’s what planks, stones and words have in common for me.
Jean Stimmell, retired stone mason and psychotherapist, lives in Northwood and blogs at jeanstimmell.blogspot.com and jstim.substack.com.