I’m Baltering

I recently came across a new word: Balter.

Balter: To dance gracelessly, without particular art or skill, but perhaps with some enjoyment.

I have daughters so I know what it looks like when a little girl dances for joy rather than with skill. I remember doing that myself — finding a leotard or the full slip I wore under my Sunday dress and then taking the stage (in the living room of course) and unleashing all the natural suavity of my arms and legs as I twisted and leapt through the air, absolutely positive that I was ready to be applauded by the masses.

Only then my mother signed me up for ballet. And it was not dancing. It was standing. It was having to know your left from your right (or being scolded for forgetting). And it was stilted, confusing and heartbreaking because suddenly there was no joy, only a cold, demanding teacher (picture old, petite and gray bun) who not only sucked all the joy out of dancing but convinced me that true dancing was beyond me.

And I stopped dancing.

I didn’t even balter.

I’ve come to regret that I stopped baltering because now, even when I’m willing to try to dance, all those feelings come back to me: the insecurity, the stiffness, the fear of not being graceful.

But I’m thankful to say that when it comes to writing, I’m still willing to balter. Why not apply the term to writing? Playing with words is like dancing — I don’t have to be Tolstoy to enjoy it. I just have to have a vision and then try to put it down on paper. I realize that I’m not a literary genius who can milk tears out of a rock (though that might be a nice thing to put down on a resume, come to think of it) but before I write for the masses, I write for me. For joy.

Because in the end, maybe it has nothing to do with the masses anyway.

So I balter. I write, perhaps without particular art or skill, but with enjoyment.