Juggling Writing and Being a Mom

It's a tough gig, it really is. But I certainly would not pick one over the other. As a writer, I feel I have so much more depth and ability to relate to things on every aspect than when I was childless. Believe me, I remember being 18 and feeling things very deeply and spending hours just thinking about everything. I had strong opinions about the world, but I was poor at relating to others. I could not see past the issues which had molded me from birth and all the miserable years of school, etc. Basically the world was black and white with no gray, which is sad, because much of the world rests in that in between realm of gray.

So that's one aspect of being a parent/writer . . . the emotional aspect of it. The other aspect is about how one deals with their time, or more importantly other people's needs for their time. Kids do not understand the idea of Mommy needing to work. They don't know what it is to edit the first chapter fifty times or write ten synopses, or labor over a query letter that goes from long to short to long in one day and just when you think it is prefect, you send it off only to find obvious spacing issues. They don't understand that while you're swinging them outside under the evening trees, you're writing your next book and dreaming away, wishing you had a computer in front of you so that none of it becomes lost with distraction.

Again, I would not trade one for the other. However, I was going to wait to start writing my first book when both kids were in school. That way I wouldn't have to worry about interruptions or having to stay up all night while they are asleep to get it all done. But this book wrote itself in many ways. I had no choice but to start now. I'll take the all nighters and interruptions because it is such a beautiful process, much like creating a child. I truly love my characters and the whole story line. Many times while editing, I have found myself just stopping and reading away, enjoying myself and marveling at some of the things I had written. Of course, other times I have had to stop and correct stupid little mistakes and bad passages that should never have left my fingertips. All of it while knowing that one day my kids will discover it, read it, and hopefully become inspired to write their own books.

So, even though a parent feels tons of guilt for letting their kids watch the same dvd over and over just so that they can finish their book, it is done with a certain goal in mind. And that is to create something good, and leave a legacy that will last beyond any moments of guilt and boredom and stress.

In the end, I'm lucky to have my beautiful kids and any sort of talent at all that leads to writing or art or music. Yep, I'm very lucky indeed.

Parks and Memories

Took the kids to the park today. It is super lovely outside with a nice breeze breaking through the lingering summer sunshine. The park we went to is the same one I remembering playing at when I was a kid. It has better play equipment, but the layout is still the same with two arched bridges going over the creek, and a nice set of connected trails.

It brought back so many memories of being a kid and the way I felt at the time. I didn't have the best childhood, by far, but I do remember the good times and moments at that park would be qualified as good times. The 70's were such an organic era; pure, yet tainted with just a hint of the chaos to come. Grass was green, but not too green. People had long natural hair and bell bottomed jeans. Older men wore clothes like Ward Cleaver, and they smoked and it was considered just fine. RC cola tabs were on the ground and you walked over them with no sense of being bothered, but then when you cut your foot on one, your mom just got out the iodine, you screamed, and then went back to playing.

It may seem irrational, but even the sky seemed bluer back then. And there was so much empty land to run around on that it made you feel whole inside and you knew like if you ever needed to run forever, you could and nothing would ever hold you in.

One thing I remember in particular about my childhood is how big the cars were. Not big like today's cars, I'm talking about just tons of pure metal and long, long hoods. We had one of those old cars that could fit all three of us kids in the backseat- and no, there weren't any booster seats- and it was hot, hot vinyl in the summertime. That stuff was seriously dangerous, but it sparkled in the sunlight.

Are you still here reading this? You are? Amazing. Okay, well, I think I'm done writing for now. Shine on.

Email Submissions . . . bite

I really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really
don't like what happens to my text when I paste it into the email for a query submission. Edited this as I figured it out . . . as much as is possible . . . which isn't much . . . but oh well.
I'm thinking too much.

My First Blog

I like this. With a blog you don't have to worry about agents or publishers or writing a synopsis. You just write. Yay.

I have always been a better writer than speaker. I used to give my mother notes when I was upset because it was the only way I could tell her the way I really felt, and of course the writing that I used was so flowery and disgustingly emotional that she found it amusing--kept the notes--and put them in her dresser to keep forever. One day I found them and was incredibly embarrassed. I think I destroyed a few, which I feel really bad about now that I'm a mom, but at the time I was protecting myself. Being the youngest child, I grew up having to hide and conceal or be teased mercilessly. Those notes were like ammo for my siblings, and I did not need that kind of disadvantage.

Need I tell you about the time I was fell asleep crying over some stupid thing, only to wake up with the sound of my cries being played out in the back yard--neighborhood kids gathered around in giggling crowds? My sister had taped my tantrum and invited everyone under seventy pounds to listen, free of charge. I raced down the stairs, fire burning inside me, and threw open the back door. The first person I saw was our neighbor, Steven Martino, poor kid. I locked my eyes on his innocent stare and yelled out, "F*ck You, Steven Martino!" Yes, I did.

He looked around at all the kids--who had fallen silent--and then back at me, with his mouth open in shock. By then my mother had appeared and pulled me back into the house. All my anger was replaced by shame in mere seconds. Being a redhead, I think she sympathized and didn't utter a word in repentance, just led me away from the scene and into the kitchen, one of my favorite places to be. I could hear the kids still outside, laughing and replaying the shocking scene. Steven had already run home to tell his mother.

What I mean to tell you by all this is, I am not a speaker. What you hear me say is always the stuttering version of a million words that I cannot seem to let go of. But writing is emotional and out there. I love it for that, but I fear it for that. And please, don't take anything I write or say and show it to a crowd of kids because I just might go postal on ya'll.