Everyone scream WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

I'm doing a fly by posting - cause I'm actually on holiday. So no photo this time :)
The kids and I have been spending the last week with my mother - who has planned a week filled with adventure, excitement, screaming (roller coasters) and two very tired bunnies - that would be me and her.
My mother and I are very similar - something that struck me sitting in the car next to her. We laugh the same - we even THINK the same. Seemingly its quite funny to watch. Mum and I get on really well - but she lives so far away that we have to pack so much into a week that by the end of it we're so frazzled!

And yep, I'm officially a student now. I get my card - I have to finish enrolling tonight onto the system at the university - and give serious thought to changing my degree already. I've been offered the chance at a masters degree, one year faster than it should have taken me. I'm sorely tempted, but I'm worried about being pigeonholed. Being pigeonholed as a writer though isn't all that bleak of a prospect - the thing about pigeonholing is it doesn't cover all the other stuff I can do, and understand. And I don't like to judge people solely on qualifications, and unrealistically, I guess, don't want to be judged solely on academic merit.
Anyway, I'd better get to bed - its my son's unofficial birthday party tomorrow and more screaming and stomach churning fun :)

"I'll be Post-Feminist in a Post-Patriarchy"

Salon has a point. "I'll be Post-Feminist in a Post-Patriarchy" makes a good bumper sticker. Salon's Broadsheet and this post from Feministe, like many Second Wave Feminists don't like the term "post-feminist" because it can mean everything from "we think feminism has achieved its goals and is old hat" to "we do not like the militant nature of Second Wave Feminism and want to be barefoot and pregnant and go shopping." Which is it? Broadsheet asks, "how do people who call themselves post-feminist define post-feminism?" And as I call myself "post-feminist," I thought I would answer--not just answer, tell my story. Because I think it is a story that will resonate with other Gen X women.

I came from a socially and fiscally conservative rural family. My mother was educated (had her MA) and my father had a HS diploma. Mom had a career, but the truth was, my brother and I were troubled, we needed her home. My father was an alcoholic, emotionally distant. Being from a rural area, I had no real experience with many things: people of other races, door to door proselytizers, feminists. They simply did not exist in any concentration in the rural area where I lived.

I went to an urban college, Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh, PA in 1988. At the time, the ration of males to females was 3 to 1 in the university and closer to 7 to 1 in the engineering school where I took my degree. In my major, there were 6 males for every female, which was the lowest ration in the college of engineering. Suffice it to say, I was surrounded by men. And yes, I experienced a small amount of discrimination because I was female in a "man's world."

There was a very vocal group of Second Wave Feminists on campus. Back then, in the last 80's the just called themselves Feminists. You can look up second wave on Wikipedia, but here's the gist as I get it. First Wave Feminists got us the vote in the 20's. Second Wave is what we most commonly associate with feminism: the militant bra-burning 70's. And I have to say, I didn't much like these feminists.

For the most part, they dressed like guys, not just in jeans and t-shirts (everyone wore those), but in plaid flannel and work boots. They had rough manners and frowned a lot. They disapproved of wearing make up, nylons and heels--UGH, shopping--going to parties, flirting... and it really seemed they disapproved of men in general and sex--particularly sex with men--in specific. They were militant and annoying, arousing ire and ridicule even among people who might have agreed with their principles. Now, perhaps this is not what Feminism is supposed to be about, but for the self-described feminists I met in college, it darn sure seemed so.

(Update: To clarify, this is NOT to imply any bias against lesbians, whether or not they may present a "butch" image. I, personally, strongly support gay rights as human rights.)

I was just not like that.

I LIKE men. Most feminists say they do, but sometimes it's really hard to think they do because of what they say afterwards. "I like men, but..." If we're in a patriarchy, then men ARE the enemy. I don't think men are the enemy. I like men. The guys in my "office" are good people, if a bit juvenile and geeky.

I like having sex with men--not every moment or on command--but for mutual attraction and enjoyment. Great sex? Big dicks? EHLL YES! It seems like a lot of Second Wave Feminists thought that the way to gain respect was to not have sex. To the feminists I went to college with, a woman couldn't have sex because she wanted to, because she was attracted to someone, or just for her own pleasure. That would be demeaning and a sign low self-esteem. And to me, this buys into the patriarchy like nothing else. If I am empowered NOT to have sex, then I am also empowered TO have sex (thus modern "hook up" culture). If I choose to have sex, it's not because I'm being forced, goaded or cajoled, it's because I want to. My body. My reasons. My choice. The feminists I knew in college did not approve any more than the right wing barefoot and pregnant types did. Strange bedfellows! Again, perhaps this is not what Feminism is supposed to be, but it sure as heck was the type of feminism practiced by the people who called themselves Feminists.

I liked great clothes and I enjoyed shopping for them, though I did not have much money to do so. Why not be proud of getting a $125 cashmere cardigan for $15 because it had a hole? What a steal! What's wrong with finding pumps that make my legs look long and slender? What's so wrong with shopping? I have never figured that out, though I guess that if you don't think you should care about your clothing or your appearance, shopping can seem so frivolous. It is frivolous. So what.

The feminists I knew seemed to hate the trappings of womanhood: dresses, make up, jewelry, heels. I don't hold with the idea that you had to BE a guy to get respect like a guy. I had a nice figure. I liked to show it off. I liked to dress up, wear make up, put on my heels and go dancing. I liked standing up straight and being admired because I was pretty as well as smart. I LIKED--and LIKE--being sexy. And I thought to myself, "Why can't I be competent, smart, assertive, self-confident AND sexy?"

And I didn't see why I couldn't be all of the above.

This is, BTW, the origin of my nickname. In Freshman year of college, I chose the nickname Dejah from Heinlein's The Number of the Beast. Heinlein's Dejah Thoris (unlike Burrough's Dejah Thoris) was the supreme post-feminist heroine. She was graceful, beautiful, brilliant and KICKED ASS. She could carry off a ball gown and heels, waltz divinely, clean a fish, shoot a blaster, slaughter aliens, and fix the space ship. She didn't NEED a man to take care of her. But she was also sexy, and able to attract and satisfy the kind of man who deserved her: a man of principle, courage, and intelligence. I thought, THIS is what feminism is missing. Women can be sexy and competent, we don't and shouldn't have to choose.

It was a solid fifteen years before I discovered that there was a word for how I felt. How I felt that Second Wave Feminism didn't represent the whole of what a woman is, only a part of it, how it wanted to restrict me to a narrow view of womanhood, not set me free to make my own choices and define myself.

That word is "post-feminist."

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.

Dejah: Extra! Extra! Mothers WORK!

This deserves a Fark headline, it really does. "Not News: Working at Home is Durned Tough. Distractions legion. News: It's just woman's work, big deal. Fark: Written by a man."

The NY Times delves into the home life of a work-at-home-father, incidentally a writer. The poooor guy isn't getting anything done, and when his wife comes home from her late-night, high-powered, corporate job asking if he accomplished anything, not only can't he remember, but he can't remember WHY he didn't get anything done. So he begins to make a list of all the things he does instead of working. And it's a mighty long and time consuming list.

And THIS is somehow BIG NEWS?

I mean, work-at-home-mothers handle this stuff in their sleep and still get their work done, don't we? We're not sitting around all day eating bon-bons. Why is this news?

Oh, yeah, right, because it's a MAN doing it. If it was a woman writing this, it would sound whiny--and rightly so. We all know that handling the stupid sh*t is just part of the mother's job. We do what needs to be done, and still do everything else that is expected of us. And we wonder why we cannot keep our houses clean.

(Okay, so DH went away on a business trip 5 minutes after the well ran dry and it took me TWO DAYS fixing the pump to restore water to the house. Yes, I am grumpy! I will officially be grumpy until he is pinned Chief and this hellish indoctrination is over and he can take over his half of the sky.)

More than a Mom

As a writing mom, one of the issues I struggle with is telling myself that it is OK to be more than a mom, and that I don't have to be a SuperMom. I wrote about this a while ago, but I thought it would be appropriate to share here.

Sometime after the birth of my fourth child in four years, I came to a realization. I am not a mommy. Sure, I had all of the right requirements. I had the scars and stretch marks to prove my journey through pregnancy and labor. I had the four blossoming personalities hanging from or sitting on my various body parts. I had at least four people who would define me as a mommy.

The problem is that I don’t/won’t define me as a mommy. Who am I? I’m a woman and yes, in my case, I am a mother, but my definition of me does not begin nor does it end with motherhood. Beyond everything, I am me and my dreams and wants and needs are every bit as important as those chirping hatchlings demanding my attention, my energy, my time and my love.

My life didn’t end the day some persistent sperm buried itself in an egg deep inside me. It didn’t begin that day either. It didn’t end or begin nine months later when I gave birth to a baby. My life did change. It got louder and more hectic. It became more rewarding and bewildering. It did add a new dimension and a new definition to who I am, but it did not eclipse me. I didn’t stop to exist. I am a mommy, but I am so much more, and at times, so much less.

I am me. I can be like the childish toddler throwing a tantrum one minute and the cool professional the next. I can be a woman in love with a man and a mother in love with her children. I can be selfish and greedy and caring and loving. I can kiss boo boos and still feel sexy. I can be me. Sometime between my first pregnancy, the subsequent miscarriages and births, I had forgotten who I wanted to be and who I needed to be.

Months after giving birth I was bored and depressed. More importantly, I was guilty for feeling that way. A mother is supposed to give up everything for her children, isn’t she? Am I less of a mother for wanting more? I battled with the questions. I battled with the definition of who I was and who I wanted to be. Finally, I discovered I didn’t like me and I didn’t like my life. I didn’t like me, the mommy. I wasn’t happy and as a result my family wasn’t happy.

I needed to be defined as more than just a mother. I needed to remember my goals and dreams. I needed to remember I was also a journalist who loved to pursue a story and a writer who loved to weave a good tale and a teacher who loves to share the excitement of learning. I needed to remember why I loved my husband before we had children. I needed to remember why and how he could make my heart race with a look.

I do not live my life for my children. I am not the super mother of my dreams. I have flaws and shortcomings. I have plans for improvement. I even have dreams that don’t involve motherhood. I won’t give them up or put them on hold for the next 20 years.

“They are only young once,” my mother admonishes me. Gently she tries to remind me of my responsibilities of motherhood, imparting on me the wisdom of her years. Yes, I agree, but I too, am only young once. I treasure the moments I spend with my children. I also treasure the moments I spend without them. Why should my life be on hold just because I’m a mother?

Does that mean I stopped cooking dinner, doing the laundry and changing diapers? No. I still do all those things. But there are days I don’t. It’s my choice not my sentence. Motherhood isn’t a prison. It shouldn’t limit me or my ambitions.

The life of a mommy is not enough for me. It never could be, but it is a beautiful addition to me. The life of a woman, now that, is for me.

Lessons Learned - Lesson 1

One of the great reasons we have this blog is so that writing mothers can share their experiences and what they’ve learned. As I learn things that help me build my writing career, I want to chronicle them here on Mama Needs a Book Contract. My hope is that I can be helpful.

I hope that somewhere out there on “the Internets,” as Heather says, some aspiring writing mother will click her way here, and find kinship, information, inspiration, and most importantly encouragement that yes, Virginia, you can be a writer.

I hope for this because two years ago I was that mom.

I was an unpublished, hopeful wannabe writer. Had been, in fact, for at least 30 years.

My mommy always said I could be a writer. ;-) My dad said I could be a writer. Dear, sweet Mrs. Calloway, my high school English teacher, said I could be a writer. My high school magazine teacher told me I was a writer. My distant relatives always asked me if I was a writer yet.

Later, my husband told me I could be a writer. My friends told me I could be a writer. My college English teacher told me I should be a writer.

But I shed some tears on my 37th birthday because I was almost 40, and I wasn’t a writer. It wasn’t as if I regretted the path my life had taken. I loved all of it: the years I spent in a Christian leadership program, the years following when I spent most of my time helping and ministering to people, the first years of marriage when we focused on stability and our new life together, and the first years of motherhood, when I focused on enjoying one of my dreams come true.

But now that I had all that in place, I wanted to be a writer. So on my 37th birthday, I prayed to God. There was some whining involved.

Two months later, my husband and I went to a Bible conference where I ran into an old friend. She pulled me aside as if to tell me something important.

She described a series of events that led to her getting a job working at home as a proofreader for a major educational publishing company. She remembered (after all these years!) that I wanted to be a writer. And she looked for me at this conference so she could tell me one thing: “Carolyn, God can open doors for you.”

It was like God was talking to me. Heck, He was talking to me. Answering me.

Before I turned 38, I was a writer.

Lesson learned: Yes, Carolyn, you can be a writer.

Monday Morning Goals & Listmaking

I am being featured this week on the Direct Sales Radio Show. One of the topics I discussed was listmaking. I'm a listmaker.

Some people are predisposed to make lists (like me) but others need to learn. (Like, ahem, my husband...)

Listmaking does two things:

1. Makes a committment to yourself


2. Saves your brain memory and energy

I recently heard an analogy that said it perfectly, I'll attempt to recreate it here. Imagine your brain is an airport and you are the air traffic controller. You have planes circling and waiting for their time to land, you have planes getting ready to take off, planes sitting and waiting for passengers.

These planes are your tasks. Some are small, like remembering that there are shirts that can't stay in the dryer until the end of the cycle or they will wrinkle. Some are large, like a major project deadline looming. But while we devote a different amount of energy to each plane, as they require, each one takes up the same amount of space in our brain/airport.

By creating a list, we assign each plane its own space. A plane with no space for itself is taking up too much space wandering around the airport while we think about it, talk about it, discuss it and wonder when we're going to do something about it.

Here's my list for today:

1. Finish laundry.


2. Sort out the 'too small' clothes pile and get it ready for consignment store.


3. Sort out the Goodwill pile.


4. Finish column for WHR.


5. Go buy fall/winter jackets for kids.

Here's my list for this week:

1. Begin article for ABM.


2. Blog daily.


3. Work on Marketing Course material.


4. Send out eNews to Calgary Writers.


5. Finish Scribbler eNewsletter (issue #1!)

It doesn't look like a lot... but that's because I add duties as they come to me. I have a physical list sitting next to me on my desk. Whenever something comes to me, I put it on the list. Then, rather than spend time thinking about the things I don't want to forget, I just remember to check the list several times a day.

The great thing is, I get a little jolt of satisfaction every time I check something off my list. If I didn't have the list, I might be fooled into thinking I didn't accomplish a darn thing. So not true.

At the beginning of each day, I go to the previous day's list and transfer my 'incompletes' to my new list. Because they are right at the top, they often get the most attention.

Go on, be a listie!

Should books have content warnings?

The Internet is buzzing with the latest study showing that Americans aren’t reading books. Are we really that surprised? With the amount of written information thrown at us daily at via junk mail, E-mail, text messages, billboards and the Internet, who has the time to read books?

As writers, instead of asking why people aren’t reading our books, we should be asking ourselves this question: How we can encourage more people to read? As my writing instructor recently pointed out, our goal as writers shouldn’t be to simply put books on the shelves. We need to move those books into the hands of our readers. How do we do that? What is holding back our prospective readers?

I’ll go first. I got out of the habit of reading books in college. (So much for higher education!) Everything that I read was either assigned by my professors or touted as the latest and greatest self-help tome. I no longer read for pleasure; everything in my twenties was about self-improvement. If I wasn’t improving my mind, I was working on my soul. But I lost something along the way … the ability to escape into a novel, the ability to dream.

I’m not sure when I shook off my intense sense of drama and realized that it was okay to relax. Sometime in my thirties I set aside my self-help books and decided to read for fun. But it was hard. I discovered that the last time I actually read for fun, I had my school-assigned Scholastic book order form to help me out. I had no idea where to start. I didn’t even know in which section of the library to begin. And I suspect that I’m not the only one.

I propose that there should be a rating system for books, similar to the ones currently in use for movies, television, and music. This would save time for the harried prospective reader. If your new murder mystery was rated PG for violence, you wouldn’t have to worry about blood splatters and excessive gore keeping you up at night. You’d have the chance to brace yourself for a stream of expletives (and hide the book from your youngest child) when you bought the latest novel, R-rated for language, by that hilarious but highly irreverent humor columnist.

I realize that a book rating system could lead to an over-zealous societal backlash of book-banning or that certain books (and patrons) could be ostracized by placing them in a special “adult” section. But, handled properly, a book rating system might be worth it.

What do you think?

(Thanks for giving me a guest slot, Heather!)

Welcome to our first Guest!

Our first guest is Julie Kelsey:

Julie Bloss Kelsey is a freelance writer, wife and mother of two. She's successfully published creative nonfiction and magazine articles, with hopes of finding homes for her unpublished poetry and children's stories.

Julie had a great idea for a blog topic that I thought was very relevant. Take it away Julie!

Hie Thee to the Internets

Do you have a web presence? I don't mean a Facebook page, but an honest-to-goodness Writer Web Site that has your clips or samples or marketing material on it?

I hear many writers say that they can't afford it, or they want to wait until they are a Real Writer before they put up a site. I say bull pucky. Having a site is important and just creating the site and putting it out there on the web is a big step and when I did it I remember feeling deep down that I was saying "yes" to myself. Yes, I am a writer. Yes, this is official. Yes, I can do it. Yes, I'd sure as heck better do it now!

My site has been up for about five years. Admittedly I have never done anything specific to promote it other than include it on every email I send out. I know that there are books out there that can help you, but honestly it's all a little over my head!

But this week a magazine publisher found my site and offered me some work. That one article he offered me paid for *all the web hosting I'd ever paid for in the last five years*. Worth it? Yup.

If you are putting up a web site, don't be afraid to put your own touch on it. If you are not a formal-type person, don't make your web presence formal. Do make it professional and well-written, but have your own style.

Don't bog your site down with too many pages, but make sure your pages are clearly labeled so visitors know where to go. Here are the pages I have on my site:

Home

About

Book

Articles & Columns

Copywriting

Editing

Photography

Poetry

Resources & Links

I do have a lot of irons in the fire, but some of those pages are just gallery pages. Meaning they are just there to explain ME a little more. Pages like Copywriting and Editing have information on how to hire me. Poetry and About just have text or photos that are about me or things I like... poems I've written and just want to share.

Now, having said all that... my web site still requires a little work. That's where these guys come into play. Among their "Top 20 Confessed Web Design Sins" I found that I had committed a couple of unforgiveable sins. I'll not list them for you because, ahem... I'm off to go fix them now!

Preschool Orientation

Tonight was parent orientation for at my child's preschool. The director went over some of the policies of the preschool. The preschool teacher reviewed the handbook, and some of her expectations in the classroom.

The preschool teacher is the same teacher my son had last year (my son went to preschool for three year olds). She is an excellent teacher. She takes academics seriously, yet making it entertaining and fun for her students--the preschoolers.

On Friday, my son and his fellow classmates will have their orientation in the morning, for about 45 minutes. Then they officially begin school August 27.

After leaving the parent orientation, I went to our local WalMart store to buy school supplies. Stuff was almost gone! I was amazed. This shows you that I am not that experienced in school supply shopping for my child yet *smile*. Lucky for me, I sometimes stash supplies on sale in my home because you never know when you may need them.

My son can't wait till it is Friday, so he can play with his classmates at his orientation. I am not sure whose enthusiasm is more contagious, his or mine.
I am an educator at heart and mind. I love anything to do with learning. I teach adults, I teach children. And in return, they teach me.

Campus life

I’m going to see the place where I’m going to spend the next three years studying on Friday, and I’m already really nervous.  I’ve got almost all of my paperwork all sorted out, but I’ve got…

Its not exactly stage fright, cause I won’t be performing, but it is a low grade nerves sort of feeling.  Sorta the way you feel when waiting for your agent to get through with your manuscript I guess, in many ways. 

I’ve got just over a month to get everything all lined up and in a row, and set up as much automation as I can for the bits that CAN be automated, which means I’m going to be posting as many blog posts as I can manage on my own blogs in advance, and writing months worth of articles – just so I’ve got as much time to focus on my degree for the first month or two.  I know I’ll probably not need to – but my daughter is starting school (instead of nursery, which she did last year) too, so I’m hoping to ease us all into our new routine with as little disruption – or at least a bit of leeway as possible.

I dunno – I feel like a teenager again, and its not all bad, but at the same time, I’m worried that I’m going to mess up – or worse, its just not going to be what I need to do.

I’m determined to do it though, so hopefully, I’ll get my books list, and my class schedule, or at least, a way to access them, and I can start planning and working out how to do the whole ‘school run – lectures – pick the kids up – after school activities for them – study – work – socialize – sleep’.

:) 

Waiting on a check, again

Hi, I'm Linda and I write nonfiction. I was going to do a proper introduction, but I decided instead of introducing me, I'd introduce you a bit to the life of a freelancer. I started freelancing in 1999, but I gave it up in 2003 for a regular paycheck. You see, I have a family, and they like to eat, and they keep growing and that ends up with them eating more. And, frankly, it is fine to live paycheck to paycheck when payday is every Friday. It's quite another matter when payday is whenever the check shows up in the mail.

Can you tell that I am currently waiting on three checks to arrive?

It's the end of the month at the end of a summer where I have spent a lot of time waiting for checks to arrive. Yesterday, my husband urged me to apply for a 40-hour job that offers good benefits, but it actually pays less than I made the last time I worked full-time. I make more money doing what I am doing now, but he really misses regular paychecks with benefits. I didn't take the suggestion very well.

And in case you are wondering, I'm writing and deleting a lot here too.

My husband is supportive, but this has been a long summer, and for a huge part of it (four weeks) I was away at a writing workshop. Within the next week I will be signing about four contracts that will bring in regular income through the end of the year. If I apply for the job he mentioned and were actually hired, I wouldn't be able to complete the four contracts and another one that I've already signed with a different company. I'm not sure what he thinks, but I think he suspects I could just fit the 40-hour job in with everything else I'm doing. I don't know. We haven't actually talked about it since, as I said, I reacted badly to the suggestion.

And I'm not opposed to working full-time, but I'd like it to be a job I want because I like the job, not just something for the benefits. Or better yet, I'd like a book deal. That'd work, right?

Dejah: Late night plumbing

Have you ever noticed that as the mommy (and as the one without the "regular job") you get to be the official slack-picker-upper? My dear husband (aka DH) just made Chief in the Navy. This is the big promotion for enlisted people and there's a 6 week indoctrination . To give you an idea how stressful this is, DH had been smoke free for 5 years. He started smoking again on DAY FIVE. So, of COURSE he makes Chief while we are trying to get our former residence (the "city house") on the market. And of COURSE, who gets to pick up all the slack with the renovations? And of COURSE, what goes wrong on the night when he and the rest of the Chief Selectees decide to pull an all-nighter to catch up?

That's right. Something I can't fix.

Because the fix involves large quantities of dripping water, I MUST get it fixed before I leave the city tonight. I was so exhausted around 7 PM that I was nearly in tears when I thought I had no teflon tape. It's now nearly 10 PM. I am waiting for this copper glue to cure (it says 7 minutes) the last time I tried waiting ONLY 7 minutes, the bond broke as soon as I twisted on the valve. Now the kids are bugging me because they want to leave and they don't understand why we can't leave and moreover why I am sitting on my butt in front of the computer instead of fixing the darned plumbing!

And as resentment towards the all powerful Navy rolls through my mind, I also wonder why it is that I'm expected to drop everything and pick up the slack, when everything goes to heck in a handbasket when I need to spend all MY time on work. No one picks up all MY duties when writing bellows. So exactly why am I doing this?

Oh yes, because it has to be done.

Remember when I said that I never whine? I lied. I'm tired of being the mommy. I'm tired of having the "flexible" job.

I want my plumber!

Flinging Yourself

If the artist does not fling himself, without reflecting, into his work, as Curtis flung himself into the yawning gulf, as the soldier flings himself into the enemy's trenches, and if, once in this crater, he does not work like a miner on whom the walls of his gallery have fallen in; if he contemplates difficulties instead of overcoming them one by one...he is simply looking on at the suicide of his own talent. - Honore de Balzac

This is one of my favorite quotes. Why? Because there is no one Right Way to Fling.

Just like there's no one Right Way to Parent or Right Way to Write. And yet, if you are like me, you spend countless hours fretting about how things are going, if you are doing everything just right. If you need to change things. If you should keep pressing on...

Put your pen to paper or your fingers to the keyboard and then write. Don't spend too much time looking back or fiddling with things, just get things written. Then you can go back and edit, refine, cut or revise.

But you can't edit a blank page. No matter how much you try. Get the bones and the fat and the flesh out there on the page and then go back and whip it into shape.