It's been awhile, I know but here's the deal: I've been writing a novel. A real, fiction, murder-type mystery novel. I even have a "contact" on the local police force, and a lawyer friend who helps me with stuff. To be perfectly honest, I started this thing over ten years ago, when I was struck with what would be a scene from the book while visiting a friend from high school. In an instant a character was talking in my head. Nothing new, really--I've got people talking in my head all the time. The difference was, she wouldn't go away.
Before we go on, a disclaimer: I am not insane. Really! I have a therapist, and he assures me I'm not insane. Creative, he says, and "tuned to a different rhythm," (whatever the heck that means), but definitely not insane.
I immediately went home and started writing. Although I knew, even then, that it was a novel-length thing, the idea of writing a novel terrified me. So, I tried really, really hard to squish my voice's story into a short.
It didn't work. I've spent the last eleven years alternately working on it, tearing it up, starting over, etc. etc. all while having babies and trying to manage a household.
Not to mention the whole husband-wife relationship in there.
Turns out, writing a book is haaarrrrdddddd. Especially when I'm supposed to be nurturing and naturing two kids, a husband, three cats, a dog, a gecko and fish, too.
For me, it's what I think jumping off a cliff must be like. My brother sent me photos of him doing this very thing when he was in the Air Force. Of course, there was ocean or a big lake below him, but still. The idea of diving off a cliff, of giving up complete control of your body, of giving over complete faith that you will land safely without crushing your spine or smashing your head on a rock.....for a long time, every time I started this book, I thought of his photos and tried to jump. It didn't work. I just couldn't take that leap, give up control of my life and the lives of those around me, give myself up to a faith that it would all be OK.
That I would be OK. Even if all I did was to prove myself NOT to be a writer, after all.
For the last year, I've been making steady progress, with the help of a good friend who made me give her weekly reports. I missed my first self-imposed deadline, and I will miss my second coming up here in three days. But I'm OK with that. I'm making progress: I have 178 pages and am 200 words short of 100,000. I know what I'm doing--well, more then when I started--and better yet, where I'm going.
Even though I have been writing steadily for a year and four months, it took me an entire year before I actually found the courage and strength to jump off that cliff. But once I did....it is like nothing I have ever experienced, including (shhh) seeing my children for the first time. It's not that I like writing over them. The two cannot be compared. All I know is...if I have the chance, the opportunity to write another novel, whether anyone ever reads that one or this one, I will take it. I can't imagine giving this up anymore then I can imagine giving up my children.
Of course, in the process of taking that leap, chaos has, as I suspected it would, ensued. All for the better, I think (at least, that's what I'm going with).
My children have become remarkably self-sufficient. My son gets most of his own snacks, and usually helps my daughter get hers, during the times I set aside for writing. They have also become used to my "Ummmm.......I forgot to take the dinner out of the freezer. Who's up for Breakfast-for-Dinner/McDonald's/Forage Night?" To their credit, they are good sports and happy to play along, although my son does has started asking me "What's for dinner.....in three days?" to help "remind" me. They have also been good sports about the whole grocery shopping thing, since I often choose not to do it when I can be writing, instead.
My daughter's response to finding out we are out of yogurt again (one of her main food groups) is a cheery, "That's all right, Mommy! We'll get some probably before I'm old."
Probably.....
My husband, also, has been a remarkably good sport, learning the nuances in my voice or facial expressions that tell him I am not in the mood to be a wife--in any way--that evening because
I have words in my head that need to get out.
I figure I must be doing a good job of balancing all that because otherwise he'd be complaining, or having dates with call girls or something. And I'm almost 100% certain he's not.
To be honest, I'm not sure I would care, right now. There was a time when I was driving this project. That time has passed, and this project is driving me.
It's 2:32 a.m. right now. I finished working on the novel half an hour ago. My fingers ache, and my eyes are crusty with sleep-longing. And yet, my brain isn't done. In the background of this blog, it's going on and on about the next step, the next twist and turn....
It might totally suck. I might totally suck. But I'm beyond caring. It's not for anyone else, anymore. I jumped off the cliff awhile ago. I will hit ground by March, if not before. And I'm already planning my next leap.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
End Days: Part One (or T Minus 7 Days)
We are at T-7 days here until school starts. And while I had an awesome, tremendous summer with my kids, I think we are all ready for some time away from each other.
Tonight, my daughter exploded like a water balloon filled with liquid nitrogen. I know, from my self-imposed limited chemistry education, that you probably can't put liquid nitrogen into a water balloon. But let's just say you could. You manage to 1)gain access to some liquid nitrogen and 2)pour it into a cute little pink water balloon. Let's pretend the water balloon also insulates your hands from the cold the liquid nitrogen puts out (shshshsh!! Stop your brain from thinking right now, science people! We're PRETENDING) so you can hold the balloon in your hand and it's all soft and round and squishy and makes you happy, just to look at it.
Just like my daughter does for me, most of the time. Just the fact that she exists gives me this warmth down deep in my belly, a strange sort of amazement mixed with pride that I even had a part in her creation. Even if I hadn't--even if she'd been dropped on my doorstep one morning...most of the time, I am honored to be allowed in her life, and all I can think, when she is crying in my arms because she doesn't ever, ever want to get too big for me to hold, is "Oh, Lord, please don't ever STOP wanting me to hold you."
Then something happens. She wakes up tired. She misses her dad. She's bored. I told her to do something she didn't want to do. I was on the phone too long. I wasn't feeling well so I didn't play ponies with her. Most of the time, her anger stems from something I did or didn't do. She once told me, "I get mad at you because you're supposed to be my perfect mom."
(Yeah, I know, pretty cool she could verbalize it, huh? But still...)
She can be the happiest girl in the world and then I say "no" or tell her to finish her breakfast or answer the phone when it rings and BAM! It doesn't matter that I've been carrying her around with love and gentleness for the last few days. No matter my honest attempts to soothe her, to give her space, to catch her before she falls...she explodes. Unfortunately, she doesn't just spew standard H2O all over me. That, I like to think, I could handle. Water doesn't hurt.
My daughter, my liquid nitrogen water balloon, hurts. She's very, very good at it. Tonight, after exploding at the mere mention of cleaning her room, she called me a "mean mommy." A "witch." She said, "I hate you!" "I wish you would disappear!" "I don't love you!" "I want daddy!" "I don't want you to ever be with me again!" "You're a BAD Mommy!" She also called me a "dumb bitch," but I absolve her of that, since I know exactly where she got that one (sorry, Lady in the Camry in traffic....but really....turning left from the right hand turn lane? Even my fourth grader recognized it as Not A Good Idea.....)
Last month, my doctor burned off a wart on my thigh with a dab of liquid nitrogen on the end of a q-tip. A tiny amount. But it burned and stung and blinded my brain for the barest millisecond. I was thankful I didn't come into contact with the stuff on a daily basis.
Lately, my daughter has been burning and stinging and blinding my brain on a daily basis.
On a good day, during a relatively good week, I can handle it. I can look her in the eyes and tell her I love her, no matter what. I can turn away and let her rage at me and tuck the pain and burning away as inconsequential. I sense it coming, like the way I could sense thunderstorms growing up in the Midwest. And I prepare myself, as best I can. I remind myself she is full of liquid nitrogen, not just water. And I put on what I think of as my emotional HazMat suit.
On a long day, I can't sense her fear, her anger, her disquiet. I can barely sense myself. I can't find my own center, and I usually can't find my emotional HazMat suit. So, on long days, like today, in the middle of an even longer, worse week, when she explodes.....and she inevitably explodes.....I explode back.
We ended the day with her putting herself to bed. It wasn't so much punishment as self-preservation. For her and me.
The bad news is, the liquid nitrogen-filled water balloon doesn't fall far from the tree.
The good news is, tomorrow is another day. I do love her, and I like to think she knows that. Most of the time, I get my emotional HazMat suit on before I risk carrying around my little liquid-nitrogen-filled water balloon on a day when life plays hell with our schedule or she wakes up with that certain frown on her little face.
Most of the time, I like to think, I do OK. Even if I'm not the perfect mom.
Tonight, my daughter exploded like a water balloon filled with liquid nitrogen. I know, from my self-imposed limited chemistry education, that you probably can't put liquid nitrogen into a water balloon. But let's just say you could. You manage to 1)gain access to some liquid nitrogen and 2)pour it into a cute little pink water balloon. Let's pretend the water balloon also insulates your hands from the cold the liquid nitrogen puts out (shshshsh!! Stop your brain from thinking right now, science people! We're PRETENDING) so you can hold the balloon in your hand and it's all soft and round and squishy and makes you happy, just to look at it.
Just like my daughter does for me, most of the time. Just the fact that she exists gives me this warmth down deep in my belly, a strange sort of amazement mixed with pride that I even had a part in her creation. Even if I hadn't--even if she'd been dropped on my doorstep one morning...most of the time, I am honored to be allowed in her life, and all I can think, when she is crying in my arms because she doesn't ever, ever want to get too big for me to hold, is "Oh, Lord, please don't ever STOP wanting me to hold you."
Then something happens. She wakes up tired. She misses her dad. She's bored. I told her to do something she didn't want to do. I was on the phone too long. I wasn't feeling well so I didn't play ponies with her. Most of the time, her anger stems from something I did or didn't do. She once told me, "I get mad at you because you're supposed to be my perfect mom."
(Yeah, I know, pretty cool she could verbalize it, huh? But still...)
She can be the happiest girl in the world and then I say "no" or tell her to finish her breakfast or answer the phone when it rings and BAM! It doesn't matter that I've been carrying her around with love and gentleness for the last few days. No matter my honest attempts to soothe her, to give her space, to catch her before she falls...she explodes. Unfortunately, she doesn't just spew standard H2O all over me. That, I like to think, I could handle. Water doesn't hurt.
My daughter, my liquid nitrogen water balloon, hurts. She's very, very good at it. Tonight, after exploding at the mere mention of cleaning her room, she called me a "mean mommy." A "witch." She said, "I hate you!" "I wish you would disappear!" "I don't love you!" "I want daddy!" "I don't want you to ever be with me again!" "You're a BAD Mommy!" She also called me a "dumb bitch," but I absolve her of that, since I know exactly where she got that one (sorry, Lady in the Camry in traffic....but really....turning left from the right hand turn lane? Even my fourth grader recognized it as Not A Good Idea.....)
Last month, my doctor burned off a wart on my thigh with a dab of liquid nitrogen on the end of a q-tip. A tiny amount. But it burned and stung and blinded my brain for the barest millisecond. I was thankful I didn't come into contact with the stuff on a daily basis.
Lately, my daughter has been burning and stinging and blinding my brain on a daily basis.
On a good day, during a relatively good week, I can handle it. I can look her in the eyes and tell her I love her, no matter what. I can turn away and let her rage at me and tuck the pain and burning away as inconsequential. I sense it coming, like the way I could sense thunderstorms growing up in the Midwest. And I prepare myself, as best I can. I remind myself she is full of liquid nitrogen, not just water. And I put on what I think of as my emotional HazMat suit.
On a long day, I can't sense her fear, her anger, her disquiet. I can barely sense myself. I can't find my own center, and I usually can't find my emotional HazMat suit. So, on long days, like today, in the middle of an even longer, worse week, when she explodes.....and she inevitably explodes.....I explode back.
We ended the day with her putting herself to bed. It wasn't so much punishment as self-preservation. For her and me.
The bad news is, the liquid nitrogen-filled water balloon doesn't fall far from the tree.
The good news is, tomorrow is another day. I do love her, and I like to think she knows that. Most of the time, I get my emotional HazMat suit on before I risk carrying around my little liquid-nitrogen-filled water balloon on a day when life plays hell with our schedule or she wakes up with that certain frown on her little face.
Most of the time, I like to think, I do OK. Even if I'm not the perfect mom.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Facebook Addiction and Parenting: Can They co-Exist?
Hello, my name is Elena, and I am a FB addict. I just can't help myself: when I should be doing other things, fulfilling other commitments, I just need my FB. I decide to go in for a quick look, a tiny peek, and then I get tangled up in statuses and profile pictures and applications that tell me what Starbuck drink I am. I lose time to saving the planet by sending people pretend flowers. I burn breakfast accepting friend requests and tagging people on my "Notes About Me" page. When a friend recently apologized for not accepting my friend request because he had been so busy, I wondered what on earth could he have been doing? It had been TWO WEEKS! I can barely stay away from Facebook for two days.
A year ago, I had no Facebook in my life. Was I happy? Was I content? Did I have enough friends? Yes, yes, and definitely yes. True, I felt very isolated some days. Being a stay-at-home mom is not the life of luxury I imagined as a kid. With newborns and babies, time is one long moment during which you might not speak to anyone else even close to your age for several days. Toddlers are a bit easier: you have a little more energy, and you start to take the kids places and meet friends for coffee…but then you decide, when your child presents you with a wilted dandelion after a very long week of Terrible Two temper tantrums, that it’s time to have another baby. And you’re back to Square One.
Since my eldest entered preschool, I’ve felt my days are bits and pieces, snips of comings and goings and clock-watching to make sure he was picked up even while making sure my daughter didn’t nap too long or miss her meals .
Now that my eldest is in elementary school, and my youngest is in preschool, some days I spend almost the entire day in the car, running back and forth, shopping for groceries in between dropping one off or picking another up, squeezing dentist appointments in between soccer practice or pony class.
Yes: now I do have time to have lunch with friends, or get to the gym or just sit and read, if I ignore the rug that needs vacuuming. Of course, doing any of that (even the vacuuming) means I also need to ignore the itch at the back of my neck that tells me I need to work on my writing projects every day.
So, am I really so bored that I need to give up fifteen minutes to the writing “25 Things About Me,” or five minutes to finding out what song I am?
Not so much.
But here’s the thing: I’m having the best time doing all of that, and an even better time having all my friends in one place. I always wanted to live in a place where I and my family and all my friends and their families—old, new, liberal, conservative, Lattes or Skinny Mochas—could co-exist happily. Sounds like a Peter, Paul and Mary song, I know. But that was my dream, and look! Here we are: in my own little cyberspace town, having a common bond, at the very least.
It’s not as if I’m choosing my kids over FB. Yes, I’ve burned their breakfast a few times because I was checking statuses, but the truth is I’ve been burning bacon for years without Facebook’s help. Bacon takes awhile to cook, and I get…distracted. Sometimes I even forget I am cooking bacon and start to take a shower (that only happened once, and I was tired that day).
My point is, my Facebook addiction isn’t hurting anyone. It helps me feel connected, it gives me somewhere to go for a few minutes when it’s difficult to get out, and I REALLY need to talk to someone who isn’t asking me where their book is or what do I have to eat THIS week. Some would argue it’s a one-sided conversation on Facebook. I see it as a conversation with a time lag.
No, I have to say: this is a much, much, much better addiction then when I was addicted to carb-free ice cream (and just so you know? Even though it’s carb-free, you can’t eat a giant bowl of it every night and not put on weight, or not have crying jags the next day from the artificial sugar giving you insomnia and mood swings).
So, never mind. I take it back. My name is Elena, and I am proud to be a Facebook-er.
Welcome to my little town.
A year ago, I had no Facebook in my life. Was I happy? Was I content? Did I have enough friends? Yes, yes, and definitely yes. True, I felt very isolated some days. Being a stay-at-home mom is not the life of luxury I imagined as a kid. With newborns and babies, time is one long moment during which you might not speak to anyone else even close to your age for several days. Toddlers are a bit easier: you have a little more energy, and you start to take the kids places and meet friends for coffee…but then you decide, when your child presents you with a wilted dandelion after a very long week of Terrible Two temper tantrums, that it’s time to have another baby. And you’re back to Square One.
Since my eldest entered preschool, I’ve felt my days are bits and pieces, snips of comings and goings and clock-watching to make sure he was picked up even while making sure my daughter didn’t nap too long or miss her meals .
Now that my eldest is in elementary school, and my youngest is in preschool, some days I spend almost the entire day in the car, running back and forth, shopping for groceries in between dropping one off or picking another up, squeezing dentist appointments in between soccer practice or pony class.
Yes: now I do have time to have lunch with friends, or get to the gym or just sit and read, if I ignore the rug that needs vacuuming. Of course, doing any of that (even the vacuuming) means I also need to ignore the itch at the back of my neck that tells me I need to work on my writing projects every day.
So, am I really so bored that I need to give up fifteen minutes to the writing “25 Things About Me,” or five minutes to finding out what song I am?
Not so much.
But here’s the thing: I’m having the best time doing all of that, and an even better time having all my friends in one place. I always wanted to live in a place where I and my family and all my friends and their families—old, new, liberal, conservative, Lattes or Skinny Mochas—could co-exist happily. Sounds like a Peter, Paul and Mary song, I know. But that was my dream, and look! Here we are: in my own little cyberspace town, having a common bond, at the very least.
It’s not as if I’m choosing my kids over FB. Yes, I’ve burned their breakfast a few times because I was checking statuses, but the truth is I’ve been burning bacon for years without Facebook’s help. Bacon takes awhile to cook, and I get…distracted. Sometimes I even forget I am cooking bacon and start to take a shower (that only happened once, and I was tired that day).
My point is, my Facebook addiction isn’t hurting anyone. It helps me feel connected, it gives me somewhere to go for a few minutes when it’s difficult to get out, and I REALLY need to talk to someone who isn’t asking me where their book is or what do I have to eat THIS week. Some would argue it’s a one-sided conversation on Facebook. I see it as a conversation with a time lag.
No, I have to say: this is a much, much, much better addiction then when I was addicted to carb-free ice cream (and just so you know? Even though it’s carb-free, you can’t eat a giant bowl of it every night and not put on weight, or not have crying jags the next day from the artificial sugar giving you insomnia and mood swings).
So, never mind. I take it back. My name is Elena, and I am proud to be a Facebook-er.
Welcome to my little town.
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