Trick Bikes, 3-inch Heels, and Writing

Original post: 9/14/2015

Near the end of my walk yesterday I came upon a young man with one of those trick bikes; the ones with bars jutting from either side of the center of the spokes on rear and front tires. The young man, dressed in black from head to toe, cycled across an empty parking lot. In the brief time it took to walk the length of the lot, I watched as he got the bike to cruising speed and climbed to the bars on the front tire, facing the back of the bike. The bike continued to cruise as he stood straight up, lifted the rear wheel and balanced on one foot. His movements were elegant and sure. 

It strikes me that in my current writing project I am trying to keep a similar balance. From my years as a ballroom dancer, I can understand where such strength comes from to support a body, either on a bike or on 3-inch heels dancing backward. It doesn't come from the feet or the hands, but rather from deep inside the body, the gut, the stomach, the back; engagement is in some inert sense of self that is intangible. 

Telling the truth of one's life takes courage. Learning to identify the core that keeps you strong is similar to the cyclist or the dancer. Falling isn't an option, it's a necessity. For it is there that we identify what works and what doesn't work. 

On the dance floor the toughest thing to learn is to stabilize your own body while maintaining poise, so that you are not a drag on your partner. It may appear that women hold onto the arms and shoulders of their partners, but in reality they should have such a sense of their own dance that they move independently of their partners while stepping in unison with them.

Writing memoir or narrative nonfiction or creative nonfiction, whatever the current buzzword is for the genre can be daunting. The writer must digg in, find strength to expose the messiness of a life lived. Catholics go to confession to be absolved from their transgressions. Writers go to the page. And it is there that the balancing act begins with one letter, one word, one paragraph, until the story is told, the music ends, the bike stops moving.