Play is the Work of a Child

Personal Essay

Photo by Johnny Cohen on Unsplash

The tufts of green grass give way to an ocean of pine needles and pine cones. My black Adidas crunches down on one of these fallen cones as he races ahead of me towards the playhouse and swing set. 

“Push me on the swing Mr. Pete!” 

“Ok, bud. Sure.” 

“Higher, higher!” 

“I don’t know if your mom wants me pushin you too high.”

“Higher!” 

Flashes of childhood. My own pleading to go higher. Was it Dad who was pushing me? One of the big kids? A babysitter? Maybe Mom? It all blurs together. 

His mom thanks me for playing with her son. Parents need a break even when they’re aware that these precious years will crash by like waves on the beach. The memories, beautiful shells washed up on the shore. 

I feel lucky. The boy reminds me how to play, how to look at the world with wonder. 

It’s important, I think, for a writer to embrace this sense of wonder and keep the child within alive. Writing for me is play. I am by no means an efficient writer. I admit that I wish to develop a routine where I sit down every morning, punch the keys, and hit my daily word count. But I get the feeling as well that this desire for structure stems from a pressure to produce. I’ve read a few books on the craft of writing and many claim that you should simply sit and let the words flow. Just write. Set a timer and get the words down, however they come. 

This is not my process. There is fear that I’m not quite a real writer. That I don’t take my craft seriously enough. I try to ignore these thoughts, but I imagine I’ll always struggle with my identity as a writer. 

“When I’m done eating, let’s go look for more poop,” said the boy. 

We were over at the sandbox, the same kind I had as a kid, shaped like a large green turtle. I pried the lid open and we watched beetles and ants scamper along the sand. There next to the turtle was a pile of dog poop. The boy had nearly stepped in it. 

“That’s a fresh one,” I said. 

“Yeah.” 

So that’s how it began. We spent the next fifteen minutes searching the yard for piles of dung. My adult brain couldn’t help but want to pick up the piles as we went. Completing a chore, while also entertaining the boy. Maybe it was just laziness, but I ignored the urge to pick up the poo. Instead I tried to follow the boy’s lead into the world of wonder. This was play. 

My writing process is not unlike our search and appreciation of dog turds. I sit down in my chair, laptop before me, and wander through the fields of my mind. I try to find the boy within me who still has that wonder, who still remembers how to play. The thought crosses my mind that I should jot down some notes, map out everything, outline the story or characters. Get to work. But, I don’t. Just as I didn’t pick up the piles of poo.

I appreciate the quiet hours spent daydreaming and brainstorming. I do get frustrated at times when the adult brain takes over, asking the question, “What did you even accomplish today?” The boy in me realizes that I’m working on my writing, even when I didn’t put down a single word. I am getting better at listening to the boy, trusting my own process, and eventually the urge to write is too strong to hold in. 

But each piece I write starts out as no more than a dried turd in the backyard. Just something smelly that needs to be cleaned up. As the words begin to appear on the screen I start editing as I go. Another No No according to most craft books. Just write, then edit. Again, my process is a bit different. One would think that you would pick up the poo before you mow the grass, but here I am pushing the mower with one hand, while using the good ol’ pooper scooper in the other. 

Inevitably I push the tires of the mower over a missed pile and the lines in the yard are not quite straight. But, the grass is mowed. I look back over my work, realizing that I could have gone about it in a more calculated fashion. Then I compare it to the neighbor’s yard and I feel inadequate. 

But then I smile as the dog comes out and drops another one. I’ll continue to strive for a more structured writing routine. A routine that’s more efficient. I’ll consider it as growth, but I’m aware that as my writing becomes more like a job, I may lose something in the process. 

Do I really long to be like a machine, cranking out piece after piece? Will I still be able to wander in the yard with a young boy by my side, staring down at stinky mounds, appreciating the wonder in the world?