Submitted by rlp on Tue, 02/19/2008 - 17:36.
A few years ago we were replacing the flooring in one of our bathrooms. I decided to do it myself, even though I”m not very “handy,” as they say. I had to remove the toilet and replace it after the tiles had been laid. This was something I had never done before.
I gathered my tools together and lugged them into the bathroom. The whole thing was exciting to me. I like trying new things; I feel rather adventuresome when I do. And every new adventure carries with it the possibility that I might be able to write about it later.
Jeanene, who is a little more practical than I, did not see the adventurous side of this chore. She saw the distinct possibility that we could end up with a hole in the floor and no toilet.
“Well you know,” I said, “If worse comes to worse - I mean, in China and some places I hear they just have holes in the floor and...”
“Don’t even go there,” she said. "This is America, and this family is going to have toilets.”
“Okay okay. I was just saying.”
Removing a toilet is a pretty simple affair. You unhook the water stuff - pipes or whatever they call them. Then you take off a couple of bolts and pull the thing out of the floor. I did all of this and was quite proud of myself, I must say.
About an hour later my wife seemed surprised to find me at the computer, tapping away.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m writing about replacing toilets,” I said. I took my hands off the keyboard and turned to face her.
“You can’t believe how satisfying it is to do something physical like this. Replacing a toilet is physical. It’s a kind of, well I don’t want to say spiritual thing but...yeah okay, kind of spiritual in it’s way. There’s a physicality to it. You know, that whole “doing away with the division between sacred and secular” and all that.”
I turned back to my keyboard.
“Also, it gives me something cool to write about.”
She paused for a moment before speaking.
“So you’re writing about replacing the toilet.”
“Yep.”
“But you haven’t actually replaced the toilet, have you? You pulled it out of the floor, carried it outside, dumped it on the porch, then went straight to the computer. How can you write about something you haven’t really done?”
Jeanene was saying words - and I could put them together and understand what she was saying...sort of. But really none of this had any meaning to me. I mean, I was writing. For me everything lines up behind writing in importance, at least while I’m doing it. What does reality mean to a writer? We make reality, don’t we? We do the work of writing and in return for our labors, we get a free pass when it comes to reality. I thought we all understood that.
I slowly turned to face her.
She repeated her question. “How can you write about something you haven’t really done?”
“Well, because I’m a writer and thats kind of what we do. I don’t know, I sometimes just seem to know about things. I can sort of see ahead or imagine it or something. I don’t know how it works; I just write the stuff down.”
“You write things even though you have no real knowledge of them. You have no experience, but somehow you “see” reality. Is that what you’re saying?”
I thought for a moment.
“Yes.”
“Don’t you see what bullshit that is?”
I squinted and looked away. And then this little truth began to make its way into my brain. It was like when someone is calling your name, but you’re too wrapped up in what you’re doing to hear them. So their voice sounds real soft and distant. You’re kind of aware that someone is talking, but not really. Then you pull your mind away from whatever it is you’re doing and you can suddenly hear them and their voice is really loud.
I could hear this stunning new truth now. Loudly. You should actually finish replacing a toilet before you act like a know-it-all and write about doing it.
I got it. It was a revelation. I had hardly dabbled in the task, yet here I was writing all this stuff about physicality and other things that have very little meaning. Putting the toilet back is about 8/10 of the job, but I was already writing about it.
It was all clear to me. I laughed.
“You’re right, this is complete bullshit. Do you see how hilarious this is? There’s a gaping hole in the floor of our bathroom and this dripping toilet on the back porch - real classy. And me in here writing about it instead of actually doing it. That is so funny. I see it now. I see the irony of it.”
I paused, laughing and shaking my head. Then I froze again with my mouth partly open.
“Oh, I am SO going to write about this. I’ll write the whole story. Very funny stuff. I’ll just erase all this about spirituality and physicality and all that. I’ll just tell the story. Yeah yeah yeah, that’s what you’re supposed to do. At its core, writing is simple storytelling. Oh, this is going to be awesome”
I turned back to the keyboard and began to type.
We were replacing the flooring in one of our bathrooms. I decided to do it myself.
“Hey, what was it you said when you first came in? It was perfect. You had that really great, sassy attitude. I want to get it down just the way you said it.”
I looked up, but Jeanene had left the room.
rlp
