In which I ramble far from the topic

It starts innocently enough with my 8th grade novel. The one in the spiral notebook with the yellow cover, that long ago fell off. The cover I was sure I kept and now cannot find. I'm not sure why I care.

The whole thing is dramatic, angst filled, almost painful to read. My girlish scrawl with little circles for the i's and hearts at the bottom of exclamation points from the beginning to the middle and right through the end.

The end, which gives me a moment's pause to marvel at my 8th grade self's ability to know the end of something, to be sure of something, to be done with something, to do something she loved.

Despite the long passages that read like the finest in daytime tv and make me snort with laughter...

Such As: "Lacie,my god not her!" Lacie Ancall, my best friend, always there, never (oh God) never complaining. I had known her since the 1st grade, practically my whole life, and I guess I didn't know her well enough. Only 16, a brutal death from her own hands. She had tried to tell us, all of us, in her own way. She talked about death, she was obsessed with it. God, we just thought she was being her normally, abnormally strange self. But she was covering up her sorrows all these years, and I didn't even hear her cries for help, I ignored them and now she's gone."

Overlooking the random quotes at the beginning of each chapter that have me questioning my own 13 year old self's reasoning skills. Of course, this is the same 13 year old self who would have stepped in front of a bus and let it run over her 6 times in a row if it meant she could meet OMG he's soooooooooooo FINE, Kiefer Sutherland.

All that matters is that it's a story and it's done.

Not long after I find it (so long ago now) I start writing again. Just for me. Silly things that I don't think about publishing, showing anyone. Just because I can and I want to. Journal upon journal filled with moments.

Then to the blog and the audience, the markets and the book that I think will surely kill me. And I'm wrapped up in everything but the writing.

Until I think of those 93 pages of perfect writing in pen. I wonder how many pages I had to tear out to get it just right. I imagine the look of it was much more urgent than the content.

Which really might not be a bad thing. Back then, I never considered a word. I just went with the story.

I still do this sometimes. Block out the future, the markets, the audience...success and am gracious enough to listen fully to what's flowing through me.

But not nearly enough. And I promise myself to do it more often.

Me, Myself and I (Barriers)

Writing out in the deep end where my toes no longer feel the gritty sand on the bottom. The very tips of them occasionally catching a tenuous grasp before the waves of life come crashing over my head. At times riding the waves high in the thrill of just writing. Other moments allowing the waves to suck me under the surf... to wallow down with the dark things...the Not Good Enoughs.

I could blame the dog, who is small and inclined to chew everything from my favorite pair of sandals to laptop power cords. The dog, who needs to be taken out every half hour, only to return back inside and use my hardwood floor as a toilet. The dog, who reminds me of the toddler phase and why I'm done having babies.

Or maybe the munchkins, there are four. That's a good enough excuse, right? The munchkins with Science Fair projects times two, one of which involves the growth of mold in baby food jars on my bathroom counter. The Ethiopia project which required paper mache mask making and Ethiopian hut making out of pine straw with the help of a glue gun. After which my fingertips looked like someone had held them to a hot stove.

There is the housework. The laundry pile that never seems to get smaller. The sink that magically refills with dishes. The dentist. The doctor. The butcher. The baker. The birthday cake maker. Ok, I'm exaggerating just a bit, but you get the point.

But the truth is, it's really none of these. But rather me. My own barrier to my own success. To often frustrated, pulling back from it. Half heartedly writing, pursuing markets, working on editing the book (which really might kill me). So scared to fail, more scared to succeed.

But somehow despite myself, I can't stay away. I have to climb back up the cliff, sometimes slowly, sometimes sprinting to the very tip top. Plunging back in, feet first, right into the deep end. Where it's quite possible I might drown but it's also very likely I'll float right to the top.

Treasures

"Nicholas," I call out, turning around to look at him. "Nicholas," I say louder when he doesn't so much as blink from battling evil space invaders. Finally hollering across the 5 foot space between us. "Nick!"

He turns, looking at me blankly, pushing his glasses back up on his nose, shaking his head a bit to get the hair out of his eyes.

"Yes Mama," he answers cautiously, eyes going behind me to the plate I have just uncovered.

"What exactly is this?" I ask, pointing to the closet shelf, while being extra cautious not to touch my finger to whatever the heck it is.

I'd gone on a bit of a cleaning jag, taking the three day weekend to rid us of 15 black garbage bags of McDonald's toys, and other random crap. A task I should obviously tackle with much more enthusiasm and regularity.

"That Mama," he replies, getting up and clearing his throat just a bit as if he has the most important proclamation of his lifetime to present to me. "Is a future Guinness World Record."

"It is," I say inching a bit closer to have a better look. "I don't imagine they have a category for that, honey." I inform him, reaching my finger out to poke it.

He then proceeds to tell me that every single piece of gum he has chewed for the last TWO years, now happily reside on this one large WAD of gum, this sculpture if I'm feeling really charitable. Which I assure you, I was not.

"And they do have a record, Mama. They have a category for everything and if they don't, and your idea is cool enough, they'll create a whole new record just for you."

Then, just to prove his point, he's grabbing the book off his bookshelf and leafing frantically through it, in an attempt to save his "creation” in the closet.

"It's ok," I assure him, not because I believe there is a world record for biggest gum wad but because I don't much care. I only care that it is in my house and it has the potential to grow much much bigger. And I have to admit, it kind of creeps me out that it resembles a chicken or even a deformed rooster.

I imagine the gum wad outgrowing the plate and then the shelf, spilling out into the room until it takes it over completely and we can't get it out the door and in order for the record people to come measure it, they have to tear down the wall and then we are homeless.

“Once it outgrows the plate, it goes in the garage, ok?” I tell him but only because it is creative in it's own weird shiny, slimy, spitty, germy and gummy way.

Worthy Worth

"Is it worth it?" Jessica asked, a week ago Sunday, at the end of a post on a writing group we both belong to. I'd been wondering that myself, struggling with the idea of what determined worth and career in the writing world. Attempting to decide if I should go back to college and pursue something real and solid. Allowing myself to sink into the not good enough territory.

I hadn't made any resolutions, I'd given up really, participating in my favorite activity, procrastination through web surfing.

"This is my year of hope and courage and forgiveness," fellow MNABC writer, Heather, proclaimed, complete with perfect quotes and inspiring prose.

"This is the year I'll be more of a loser than I already am," I thought to myself in reply, with not even a random inkling of a clue what I wanted to resolve for myself.

So I moved on to Madame Rubies blog. She has had a theme each year for almost as long as I have known her. She's had a year of freedom, a year of contentment, a year of purpose and vision and now she is going to have a year of laughter and possibilities. I just love the sound of that one.

I sank further down into frustration at my own lack of creativity and motivation, and wandered off to check emails, spotting Jessica's post. Jessica who is also a writing mama. Jessica who has two small children. Jessica who is in the wee hours of the night phase that is all one big, hazy blur to me. Jessica who managed to inspire and wake me up with her writing.

I felt what she was saying in the deepest parts of my bones. I connected with it and felt something shift in my brain. And it dawned on me, that I've passed this moment that she is in.

I should have known the day my youngest was talking with her brother, about something at school. She spoke in the most grownup of ways, about this life completely without me. But it took Jessica's moment, so completely raw and inside those long ago (for me) moments, to open my eyes.

To see how blessed I am that I can say to my wild four, "Please don't speak another word to me, for just 5 minutes, I"ll lose the shape of the story in my head." And have them set the timer and understand.

She made me see how lucky I am to be in that place where they are "old" enough, where they go to school and I have hours to DO (keyword here, must do, must do) what I love and have passion for.

She reminded me of the moments when my writing has inspired, moved, motivated or induced belly laughs from another person, by touching me so deeply with her own.

She compelled me to take on worth as my theme, my resolution if you will. Of finding it inside myself.

So, in answer to your question, Jessica, yes, I really do think it is...worth it.



In honor of my theme, I chopped off 14 inches of hair (outdated and out of control hair does not determine self worth). I have pictures and a Hairy Tale on my personal blog if you are inclined to see.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

I'd asked them to give me 15 minutes (to finish the story I was working on) TEN times until finally I found myself running through the house chasing the loudest one (Hannah, who will now be referred to as The Screamer) in order to put her in her room so I could actually finish my 15 minutes and bake the blasted cookies which at one point had sounded like great fun and were now the bane of my existence.

Not only had they asked me 10 times if the 15 minutes were up yet (this from the Screamer who has not yet learned to count to 60 thank you Jesus and who I was now wildly pursuing) while Henry (now referred to as The Counter) stood at my shoulder counting to 60 over and over again (because he's realized that counting to 60 equals one minute). This activity would be bad enough on it's own for someone attempting to pull words out of their brain in order to create a sentence that makes at least some sense but add to it jarring screeches of discontent each and every time The Screamer interrupts his concentration to query on whether said 15 minutes has passed.

It goes something like this.

"1...2...3...4...5..." the Counter counts.

"Mama, has it been fifteen minutes yet?" screeches the Screamer.

I manage to ignore them until the Counter becomes the Screamer because the original Screamer has interrupted him for the second time in a row.

"I can't count with her screaming," he screams at me.

"I just want to bake cookies," the screamer screams. And well, you can imagine.

Until I've finally had enough because now the Screamer is having a meltdown, just inside the door, because I've taken to giving her the silent treatment. And I'm off stomping through the house like a mama cat whose kittens have outgrown her and are still trying to nurse, with the same look on my face that my grandma gets when the last straw has been broken or ripped into tiny little shreds.

"Mama," the Counter says later, after I've spent 10 minutes chasing the Screamer through the house to no avail. I'd given up, sitting on the couch huffing and puffing like I'd run a marathon. "You know Mama, that when you're mad and you're going to put someone in their room....we always know you're coming."

"You do," I reply, not caring much at this point what they do or do not know as long as it doesn't involve counting or screaming.

"Yes Mama, you might try smiling real big and sneaking up on her," he says matter of factly and I can't help but grin at him.

"You think that would work, do you?"

"Yes, we always know you're coming. Can we make the cookies now?"

Writerly Parenting Tip #1

If you are too unorganized or wrapped up in your project of the moment to remember your child has show and tell every other Friday, your child will figure out something to show or tell.

Things including but not limited to the song your, determined to be a terrible influence, brother delighted in teaching said child over the summer. The song your child remembers every single Kindergarten inappropriate word to and sings loudly and often.

Which you will think bad enough, until the second time when he will tell the class that, "It is ok to lie because Mommy does to phone solicitors and to save someone's feelings like the time she told the police officer that we had only been living in Mississippi for four weeks, when we'd really been here for two years, and that's why she still had a Texas driver's license."

After which the teacher will look at you strangely and you will notice your child is learning every Kindergarten appropriate song known to man. As well as lecturing you on the virtues of never telling lies of any kind. Until another parent, whose child has informed them of your own child's delightful show and tell activities, clues you in and you feel like dying from the humiliation of being the horrible, lying and forgetful Mama.... And you vow to do better.

Longed for Silence

For 11 years, 6 months and 13 days, I have waited. For the silence, for the endless days to myself...for the time to go off into my head without constant interruptions involving lost Barbie shoes and whose turn it was to swing first.

Living on some days and often for some day, those endless weeks where even a minute of silence was an impossible task.

Long days of sweaty, small faces, giggles, tears and homemade blue green pancake batter turning into what would make good playdoh in my best pan. Blue splattered pathways on the brand new kitchen floor, that would never come up.

"I gave the cat a bath," the little one says, holding out her scratch filled arms. The cat glares at us from under the sofa, still soap covered and smelling an awful lot like peaches. Meowing in her remember what I did to the bunny, squirrel and 50 birds you have found on your front porch, back of the throat don't even think about messing with me evil kitty voice.

The children conspire with the Universe, encouraging me...perhaps, into believing for a moment or two I might feel some sort of grateful relief that the summer days dwindle steadily past. Like the sleepless shifting nights... so pregnant...wishing for 10 minutes of rest, not knowing that rest..for the next 18 years at least... will be a vague and fondly remembered blip, back by the dusty things.

"Aren't you excited?" I ask them while out shopping for school supplies and school clothes and any other time it happens to cross my mind, which is often. They hem and haw at me and I wonder if they are as unexcited about the whole prospect as I am and briefly consider homeschooling. But soon enough the backpacks and lunch boxes, shimmering in their brand new plastic glory, covered with Hello Kitty and Spiderman, muster up their enthusiasm and we are counting down the days every half hour.

Not writing, not writing, not writing...not doing much of anything but taking in their frenzied last moments of unplanned lazy days.

Then, before it seems it should, the day comes. The almost as tall as me, now 6th grade boy, heading off first, on the bus with a casual "Bye Mom" over his shoulder as he goes. The girl child on her bus next, entirely too cool for me to drive to school. And then the babies, who really aren't, nudging me out of the car and into the building, tugging me eagerly forward by both arms. "Hurry Mama," a far cry from the tears I'd expected from my littlest, the wee princess.

I'm grateful for the hugs and kisses bestowed before they run off blending into the throngs of eager children, suddenly so apart from me... And then terribly alone.

Long hours to fill..of myself...for myself...by myself, a blank page to be scribbled on. I sit with it at first. I wallow in it. Rolling around in these moments I've longed for and now would willingly give back. A week or more of it, ignoring the phone ringing and notebooks and pencils in favor of random tears, until three o'clock when the house is loud and colorful with them.

Home with stories of friends and triumphs and life altering tragedies of the Elementary school sort until I feel sick of myself.

The next day I discover the stereo, a solid steady rhythm to break up the sound of my own breath, loud in my ear. And slowly awaken. Writing around it, through it and then finally beyond it. Vowing not to be scared...to see...to be...with me, here in this place I've longed for.