 When the man in my neighborhood “sold” me a tapestry loom for a can of cookies, a loaf of bread, and a future weaving, I had no idea how this would change my life. (To read about how I learned to weave, read the story Becoming a Weaver).
Despite dealing with a difficult child, intense work as a teacher, playwright, director, and writer, and later, another challenging marriage, I had something of my own. Something I could do that satisfied my need to create that wasn’t subject to other people’s opinions, schedules, requirements, or wants. I wove with my fingers and a fork, quietly, simply—without a plan. If I liked what I wove, I kept it. If not, I undid it. I learned the hard way that if I didn’t like what I wove, to unweave immediately. Too many times I thought I could live with what I’d woven, only to realize five inches later, I couldn’t. Unweaving and then reweaving, with weaving on top and below it, is tedious and problematical. I learned to pay attention to what I felt without making excuses. The weaving process was mine. Only mine.
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 In 1984 I began teaching in the Honors Program at the University of Delaware. Part of the students’ course work involved writing a paper, which they then gave to a writing fellow for comments. After revising their papers, students gave the “final” paper to me, their professor. I was supposed to comment on their work, but no more writing was required. The second revision was the end, a process I found unsatisfying and often suggested to students that they continue exploring their ideas. Occasionally some were willing to consider further drafts but I never thought to propose additional revisions as a requirement or to use my writing as an exercise in revision.
 I moved to Santa Fe in 2001 with many unfinished writing projects, including 90 pages of a book, Dancing With Wonder. Since I was no longer teaching, no longer having to meet with students, no longer dealing with committees, I had all the time I needed to finish writing about my work with stories in the US and abroad.
I tried. I wrote and rewrote. Good thing I was writing on a computer so at least I wasn’t wasting paper. Despite countless hours of writing, I hated what I wrote and could not get to an acceptable page 91. Desperate, I even took a nonfiction workshop, something I’d never done before. None of what the instructor said proved useful |
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Nancy King is a widely published author and a professor emerita at the University of Delaware, where she has taught theater, drama, playwriting, creative writing, and multidisciplinary studies with an emphasis on world literature. She has published seven previous works of nonfiction and five novels. Her new memoir, Breaking the Silence, explores the power of stories in healing from trauma and abuse. Her career has emphasized the use of her own experience in being silenced to encourage students to find their voices and to express their thoughts, feelings, and experiences with authenticity, as a way to add meaning to their lives.
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