writing is like a horse

I learned something during the two or three years my daughter took riding lessons. Though I hated to admit it, those huge, equine creatures intimidated me. Thankfully, my reticence to stand near the horses never rubbed off on Victoria. Out at the ranch, she thrived. I waited in the car.

Before I discovered my fear, I expected a horse-ride to be a straightforward affair. But horses are not cars. You don’t hop up in the saddle, turn a key, and she takes you somewhere. A horse and rider must come to an understanding. The one on top is not automatically the one in charge.

So it is, I have discovered, with writing. Simply saddling up at the keyboard does not guarantee that you go anywhere. The same way a gallop can become a panic-filled blur, so a ride on an essay or story can plunge toward nowhere fast. If the rider, or writer, isn’t in control, nothing ever happens (except maybe several bruises). Though possibly educational in nature, the effort, the ride, is ultimately about nothing.

So, I hope I’m learning. Gaining more skills and adding more gear to the stable box. I want each of my “rides” to be about something. They can meander, maybe; they can be brief or filled with gathering treasures. But I need to remain mindful of control. This is what my writing wants, really. To know who’s in charge. Because if it can canter off without me, or spend the day dozing beneath a tree, it will. I need to sit up straight and work it with my whole self.

Writing’s not a gift in everyone’s backyard. Like Victoria climbing into a saddle the first time at 13, I always knew where I belonged. I wanted to grapple with the “steed” composed of language. I still do, so I’ll keep trotting along, often clumsily, but gaining confidence.

And someday, when Victoria owns a ranch and teaches dressage to middle schoolers, maybe I’ll climb on an old pony and practice her moves.