Wild Mind

Once upon a time I had a dream to be a writer. My sister Jenni also loved to write. She wrote more than I did - she walked the walk. One birthday I gave her the book I'd just read: 'Wild Mind - Living the Writer's Life' by Natalie Goldberg. Jenni said she didn't want to read because it might spoil her writing style. I thought her objections bold, but left the gift with her.

Jenni went on to become a published and much loved author of several childrens' books. I went on to graduate from a 2 year writing course, and to know a lot more about the theory of writing and how to talk about it.

My sister began a weekly writing class in our home town in the mountains. I needed some structure to my writing practice. I also wanted to spend time with her, so once a week I did the 3 hour round trip to join her class. Her primary school teacher training meant she was a gentle and patient facilitator. She creating a loving, open hearted classroom - even for the strange boy-goth with tourettes syndrome who interrupted the class with startling whistles and who wrote about goblins in such tiny writing that nobody could read it. Sometimes I wanted Jenni to jump in and tell somebody their writing was bad. Or boring. To shake things up a bit. She never did. My elderly mother also attended the class, recalling heart-breaking, filmic stories of her childhood during The Great Depression. She never came to class without a lemon sponge or a fruit cake for morning tea.

I was proud of the stuff I wrote in Jenni's class. I think she enjoyed having me there, and when a piece I shared touched her, we'd exchange a sisterly, knowing look across the room. For a while I also aspired to teach writing, and Jenni gave me her teaching notes. They were based on the book I'd given her 20 years ago - 'Wild Mind'.

Jenni became ill. She withdrew from the world, spending her final precious months finding strength and peace in the works of 13th century Persian poets. After her death her family discovered pages of beautiful writing nobody could believe she'd written, so ravaged was she by the cancer that tore through her entire body. In one of our final conversations she told me to remember to take back the books I'd given her..

Today I went to my bookshelf, seeking inspiration, craving to read about the writing craft rather than to just begin to write. 'Wild Mind' was there among my novels. Now it's spine is warped and the cover torn. It has the discoloured, dimpled shape of a book that's sat in a puddle or been left outside in the rain.

I began to read, remembering again how much I loved the writing of Natalie Goldberg. How she urges the reader to WRITE, and her  exercises to stimulate thought and the flow and spill of words onto the page. I recalled doing the exercises in Jenni's class and her gentle encouragement.

A dog-eared bookmark falls from the book's yellowed pages. Turning it over there's a scribble - a password or a phone number perhaps, written in faded blue biro.

My sister Jenni's handwriting...