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Posts tagged ‘writing’

Jan 26

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Brittany: What Happened to My Muse?

I always have something in my mental queue. Some of the ideas are very promising. Some are wacky. Some might inspire others. Some inspire me. I had thought that my next writing project would be the sequel to my novel, all about Jillian (the ex-nympho) and her pregnancy from hell. But I’m just not feeling it. It’s winter, it’s cold, and quite frankly, I’m not in the mood to write humor. I want to begin something substantial, the kind of book you want to curl up with by a raging fire, and I have an idea for a good one. It would be a historical romance set in eastern Ohio during WWI, between an American soldier and a German-American girl. The typical “shouldn’t be together, but can’t help themselves” kind of love story. That’s part of the reason I’m reluctant to write the story. It’s been told before. It also requires a lot of research. And it would be the literary equivalent of a drama, when I’m more of a sitcom writer.

So I go back and forth. Jillian and the pregnancy? WWI and love? Back and forth, all day long. I’ve been consumed with it lately, because come February 1st, I’ve got to get started on something. This not writing thing is getting miserable. I’m nervous and irritable, drinking pots of coffee, web surfing. Here, my email, my blog, Facebook, here again. All day long. I’m like an addict going through withdrawal. Don’t know what else to do. Don’t want to do anything else.

There are so many things I should be doing, but aren’t right now, and they’re crowding out the time I have for things I want to do. I’m not even sure how I’ll fit writing in.

I joined Weight Watchers last week, for the fifth or sixth time (I’ve lost count), and part of my weight loss success depends on me going to the gym. It would make sense to go in the mornings when Sam is in preschool, but that conflicts with my only writing window, too. Monday mornings are still free, but Tuesdays are completely taken up by my Weight Watchers meeting. On Wednesdays, I can either go to the gym or take John to a children’s program at the library. Thursdays and Fridays are still free, but I struggle between writing and going to the gym on those days as well. And there’s always something to clean at home. I can’t forget to add that into the mix. I feel chronically overbooked. And I’m so preoccupied with domestic minutia that I don’t have a spare brain cell to devote to making a decision.

I’d like to know where my writing muse ran off to, since she typically provides me with some guidance at times like these. But even if she could get into my head (which is doubtful, as it’s standing room only at the moment), she’d have to body check her way past my ever-increasing contingent of other muses. The paragon-of-Mommyhood Muse. The clean house Muse. The home-cooked-meal-every-night Muse. And the hit-the-gym-instead-of-sitting-on-your-butt Muse. All of whom are currently Jello wrestling for face time with me.

Meanwhile, the one muse I’d like to entertain is nowhere to be found.

I could easily write the Jillian book. I know the story backwards and forwards. In my head, I have a beginning, middle, and end. I know all the main characters, and most of the auxiliary characters, too. I could write this book on auto-pilot, because coming off of Home Improvement I know exactly what tone and momentum I need. I’ve already outlined the book, too. So why don’t I want to write it?

Because I want a challenge.

And isn’t that stupid? I have enough challenges right now. I don’t need another one. But I keep piling them on. I don’t feel successful as a wife, mother, or woman unless I can leap tall buildings in a single bound. And if I can leap one tall building, there’d better be another one  on the horizon so I can keep proving myself over and over and over again.

And that’s why I want to write something completely different. To prove to myself more than anyone that I’m not a one-trick pony.

What will my next novel be? I don’t know. But I’ll keep you posted.

In the meantime, I’d like to know how you decide on your next project. What inspires you and what keeps you going?

Jan 19

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Kate: First words

A number of times a day I have a thought followed by, oh, this will make a good blog post. I walk through the day writing paragraphs in my head. Some of these paragraphs are very good. Some are not. Regardless, by the time I get the kids to bed (especially when D is gone, which he was last week), I am too tired to type, and I’ve forgotten those smart paragraphs I had labored over earlier in the day. (Yes, I know I should carry a small notebook in my back pocket or invest in one of those itsy bitsy tape recorders, but I don’t.)

The result is that you have no idea what a serious blogger I am. You have no idea how often I “post.” I know that doesn’t count; I’m just groveling for a little affirmation here.

This morning I’m at the coffee shop for the first time in almost two weeks, and I feel rusty. I have a list of things I need to work on: 1. revise book, 2. finish an essay I promised an editor months ago, 3. organize teaching stuff in our radon-filled office basement, 4. prepare for AWP. (I could go on, but I don’t want to stress myself out.)

My goal with the book is to re-type the whole thing into the computer. That’s crazy, isn’t it? Crazy. It’s 97,000 words. But I haven’t looked at it, much less read it, in almost two years, and it’s time to “make it the best book it can be.” I certainly have emotional distance at this point, so I can be brutal with my prose and my scenes. And I will be brutal; I’m actually looking forward to it. But it’s difficult to begin this process because I dislike the first paragraphs of the book. I’ve always disliked them. There, I said it. Time and again, I’ve gotten hung up on these paragraphs. I’ve been obsessive about this word or that word, changing “lie” to “lying” to “lie” to “lying” a dozen times. And I know that this sort of piddling always speaks to a larger problem, a problem that screams: “These paragraphs suck!”

I know what I would tell a student if she came to me with this problem. I would say, “Skip the first paragraphs. Sometimes those are the last to be written. Come back to them.”

I’m absolutely confident that I know what I’m talking about when I doll out this kind advice. I smile and nod encouragingly. I ask my student, “Who says you have to write a book from beginning to end?”

So, I am staring at myself now and nodding encouragingly. (I look slightly foolish, as you can imagine.) But I’m ready to take my advice. I’ll come back to these paragraphs, and soon I’ll discover whether: a) I’m full of shit or b) I really know what I’m talking about. I do hope it’s the latter.

Jan 13

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Cathy: Getting back to business

After the long holiday hiatus I took from my manuscript, I opened the document the other day and worked really hard to pick up where I left off. It wasn’t easy. I did realize during the time I was away from it, that a character name I had was a little close to a character name in a book series I admire which handles the same theme. In fact, in re-reading one of the books during my hiatus, I had the not so fleeting thought that maybe my book was a little close to that one. Maybe a little too close.

Though I had not read it in about five years, it occurred to me that this was the book that inspired me to say I could manage to write a book for this age group and this length. It was doable. After all, I’m no JK Rowling with a story arch to cover seven rather lengthy books. I could write a hundred or so pager first time out. My Great American Novel could be shelved a bit longer than it already had been. Four years ago, that one was already shelved for about seven. By the time this blog community gave me the courage to say I could return to working on this four-year-old project, I had forgotten where my inspiration came from, but apparently not the story and theme.

I can fix it, it’s not that close, and there is a bevy of bully theme books for elementary readership. However when I was reading the inspiration book and even a character name was in kind, oops! She’s a secondary character, but still. That was it. Time to figure it out. But before I do that, I really need to finish out my plot.

So back to where I left off about six weeks ago: I feel like the Tin Man. Can’t quite get those legs moving by myself. I went back a few chapters to read up to date in the plot, but I’m still writing like I’m stalling — a paragraph here, a sentence change over there, a grammar correction or three. I lost my prior groove. Any ideas on how to get it back? It may help if I can squeeze in a yoga session before I write during Baby C’s morning nap, to clear my head, but that sends likely wake up time right into when I’m likely to recover a groove. Ugh. I can hear the resistance thoughts gathering momentum.

Jan 12

6 Comments

Brittany: I Like the Me that Doesn’t Write

I like the me that doesn’t write, that isn’t annoyed with toddler tears and poopy diapers. Whose mornings are filled with muffins and snuggles instead of character development on page 275. I like evenings of leisurely splashy toddler bathtime and seven or eight stories before bed. I don’t miss the nights where I wish the boys would sleep already so I could perfect the dialogue in chapter 4.

I am enjoying *not* writing. But I feel a compulsion to do it anyway.

I’ll admit, I struggle with balance. I’m the kind of writer who putters a little here and a little there for months, followed by a gigantic burst of writing over the course of a day or two, where I forget where I am, forget to eat, forget I’m on planet Earth and have two small children in need of dinner. And after three years of feverish writing, it’s nice to be in my own head again  without the characters I created crowding me out, interrupting playtime and Thomas videos with their insistence on some plot resolution.

Monday, while pumping gas, I heard a train whistle off in the distance and knew it was headed our way. Sam wants nothing more in life than to look at trains, and in downtown Simpsonville, it is possible to drive alongside the track, along a side road, a few feet from the train itself. Because I wasn’t writing, and had the whole day in front of me, I wasn’t in a rush to get home, feed Sam lunch, and put him down for his nap. Instead of heading home, I drove down Main Street, pulled up at an intersection, watched the train go by, and then followed the train all the way down the side road until it ended. Sam was totally blissed out, and I knew the way you just know these things, that this was a moment where I was filling Sam’s emotional well.

Then yesterday, after my chiropractor appointment, I decided to take John to the library for Mother Goose on the Loose. It’s a program from children up to age two with music and books, rhymes and rhythm. I took Sam for almost two years, every week, unfailingly. He was not a huge fan of the crowd of people and nervously clung to me for almost every session. He did not like to participate. And he didn’t interact with the other children much. But he loved to come home and do the activities one-on-one with me, so I would go to learn the activities and somehow Sam endured it. During Mother Goose time, the leader, Donna, takes out  a drum and sings, “My name is Donna. What’s your name?” On “Donna,” she hits the drum twice, one for each syllable. The point of the activity is to create phonemic awareness, but most kids just like to take their turn with the drum. Not Sam. In two years–two years of gentle encouragement and mommy assistance–he hit the drum exactly once. The last day we ever went to Mother Goose on the Loose. The day he spent most of the time crawling under the chairs and trying to run outside the room and activate the automatic library doors. At drum time, he joined the group briefly, long enough to smack out his one-syllable name.

John, as much a I try not to make comparisons, is a completely different child temperament-wise. He is a social butterfly and loves to watch the world, the more stimuli the better. And since most of my free time of late was spent writing, and my one-on-one time was usually reserved for his needier older brother, I felt a little mommy guilt that I wasn’t doing anything yet just for him.

You can probably see where I’m about to go with this story. John loved Mother Goose on the Loose. He was attentive and happy and played with the other children, was deliriously happy, and hit the drum–on the first try. Again, I felt an enormous sense of pleasure at being able to tap into what my child needed and give it to him.

Now to diverge for a moment…I have taken the Myers-Briggs personality test quite possibly a hundred times, through all stages of my life, from high school on. No matter when I’ve taken it, I’ve been an I/E NTJ. You know how you hear something about yourself and shrug and say, “If you say so…” That’s where I was at.

Lately, I’ve been having a mini-crisis of self. For more of the gory details, you can read my personal blog. But the amazing thing about it is that as soon as I said I was looking for more joy in my life, a better sense of self, and more satisfaction with my life, the universe has literally flooded me with it.

I was on Facebook last night after the kids were in bed, and spur of the moment decided to take the Myers-Briggs again. Now I am an ISFJ. Somewhere down the line, my personality changed. That, or I’ve become more honest with myself over time. The ISFJ  is described as The Nurturer:  quiet, kind, and conscientious. Can be depended on to follow through. Usually puts the needs of others above their own needs. Stable and practical, they value security and traditions. Well-developed sense of space and function. Rich inner world of observations about people. Extremely perceptive of other’s feelings.

That sounds about right.

So in other words, focusing on my book has prevented me from nurturing anything but my laptop. Since I haven’t been writing, I’ve been happier this week than I’ve been in a long time. I’m no longer focused on myself and my projects. Instead, I’m opening up new worlds for my boys. Truly that’s where I’m happiest.

I loved the movie Finding Neverland and the way the filmmakers showed Barrie stepping into and out of his imagination and using his real-life experiences within his creative writing. It was a realization that writers/artists do hop back and forth between worlds. And just like Barrie, I think my adventures with my boys will inspire my writing, too. Isn’t it a wonderful thing when one world sustains the other?

Jan 5

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Mary: Rejection as a lifestyle

I’ve had my fair share of rejection in my life. I used to traipse around the Boston area, auditioning here and there for parts. Probably, I was a little out of my league. In fact, in the words of the Magic Eight Ball, it is decidedly so. Fresh out of college, quite “green,” no experience in the professional theatre (as an actress), and with many stars, and a stray eyelash or two, in my eyes, I picked my audition pieces with the aplomb and insight of a politician dealing crack.

Still, I hoped for the best, and bravely strode to the doors of one such audition, piece in hand (or in my head, actually). It was Emily’s last monologue in Our Town, a role I did not ever play, and although I did play Mrs. Webb in my high school production, that mere fact does not mean that I was capable of producing an efficient rendering of the scene. In retrospect, let’s just say I was a little ill-prepared.

But it was a serious monologue, and I produced it poignantly, I imagined, PAR cans in my face, to the faceless souls out there watching. I finished. They said, “Thank you.” I turned and pushed open the double doors, and as they swung closed behind me, I heard them burst into laughter.

Yes. Laughter.

Oooh, that killed me. I think that might have been the proverbial straw, although I should have brushed myself off and kept going. But I think, at that moment, I somehow felt that I just didn’t have it in me. I couldn’t do it anymore. It felt personal.

Of course, being a writer, one faces rejection all the time. Every day. It is an aspect of the writing life that is reliable, like an old coat, like that pair of “go-to” jeans. Some people even sort of thrive on it. Or at least, make it into a joke.

My old college professor, and mentor, of sorts, told us he used to wallpaper his room with all the rejection letters he received. They almost became sort of badges of honor for him. All those rejections. All those submissions.

I’m not sure why I don’t submit more. I have many articles and essays that, if only fleshed out and worked up, might amount to something. It’s always the last thing on my to-do list, the editing and researching and sending out of material. I sometimes wonder if maybe I have a fear of rejection. Or fear of success, which is even more puzzling. Maybe I have a fear of rejectful succession. I think that’s probably the case.

Pseudo-self-analysis aside, I think sometimes rejection is our greatest friend, as writers. It can really give us a fresh look to our writing — it can give us Perspective and Objectivism. It can also give us a major migraine, but that can easily be solved by a good sound nap and the formulation of a long heated letter stating why said rejecter is talking out of his or her ass. (Shredded right afterwards, of course).

I do think rejection can be constructive, especially if the criticism is given that way. I am reminded of a graduate writing class I took, where one of my fellow students declared, “I don’t like your story, and I don’t know why.” (Believe me, HE got an very heated, unsent letter later on that evening). Some criticism is not helpful, nor is it necessary. I mean, what am I supposed to do with that?

I don’t expect much in the way of personal feedback from magazines, journals, publishers, etc., who have rejected me. I mean, these hard-working people have their share of relentless reading to do – much of it crap, in all likelihood. So I don’t expect a small novelette in response, for goodness sake.

Still, it is difficult not to take it personally, at times. Writers — and all artists, I think — must have the ability to shake off negativity, and keep heads up and egos in place. At times, writers must appear to have monstrous, in-your-face, stocking-up-at-the-all-you-can-eat-counter-and-then-going-for-seconds types of egos, that continually need to be fed; that need the affirmation, the nod, the, “Yes, you’re doing great! Yes, you are GOING places!” In actuality, I think writers are some of the most insecure people around, needing the boost that comes with encouragement and positive feedback.

I’m not sure I’m insecure. I might be so insecure that I am secure in it. Or that I just don’t see it, because I’m so deluded. Hopefully it’s neither one, and I happen to be someone who is developing a secure sense of self (but if delusion is the case, than how would I know)? I’ll tell you, no matter what state of self-possession I might be in, I surely need to get back to it, and start sending stuff out again.

I’m adding in here a letter I found in an old box of my childhood writings, which I must have received when I was eight years old. It appears that I had sent in a poem to the publishing company Ramapo House, and they were kind enough to send me a rejection letter back, which my parents astutely kept. It’s my first one. * sniff *

Dear Mary:

Thank you very much for your wonderful poem. We have hung it up in my office and everyone who visits my office will read it.

You are a very good poetess. You should save a copy of all your poems and perhaps someday a publisher will print them in a book with your name under them. When I see lovely poems like this I am sorry that our company only publishes textbooks for schools!

Thank you again.

Thanks, Ramapo. Maybe someday a publisher WILL print them in a book. With my name under them, and everything. I can only hope.

Dec 23

10 Comments

Mary: December Thoughts

I should be writing Christmas cards, but frankly I’d much rather be here in my darkened study, whiling away the time spinning words around. It was a long, sort of difficult day, with my six-year-old boy having a bad cough, and so not being able to romp around in the snow outside.

It kept us quite house-bound. We did a lot of playing, some arguing, some movie-watching, some running around like crazy people, and generally climbed the walls until bedtime.

Now I relax here in this comfortable seat and relish the silence. Funny how such life, such energy and immersion can be so stimulating and exhausting at once. I love these small people so dearly, and yet breathe a small sigh of relief once the house is quiet for the evening, and I can once again write in peace, with no interruptions, with no noise, no questions or incessant tappings on the shoulder.

I think about the new year coming, and hope that I can get some good work done – that this new year brings a snap of newly starched sheets to my rather burdensome creation, this book, this relentlessly unmade, rumpled bed of a project.

I know I speak harshly of it, for which I do apologize, book. I do love thee. But you are becoming heavy on my back — although I suppose that is my perception of you, and not at all a reflection of you personally. I think, actually, I’m putting all these feelings on myself.

For one thing, it is NOT good practice to give myself deadlines. It just makes me feel all the more despondent when I don’t meet them. For example, I was bragging talking to my friends and acquaintances about how I thought it would be completed by the end of this year. HA.

(Isn’t it funny how life always deals out a blow after one has been bragging? “Oh, yeah? Take that!” says Life, as it fills up your glass with a dose of humility, plopping in a tablet of irony, for good measure. And you are sorely humbled. And also sort of embarrassed. And wanting to just slink away home with a blanket over your head, for a nice cup of tea and some good old fashioned self-pity. What? You don’t do that? Ah. Well. ANYWAY).

In essence, I hope the new year brings all good things – a hope, I suppose, all people around the world have. But, what of this new year? What if it doesn’t deliver? What if I simply don’t have the time to finish? What if I am constantly bombarded with interruptions, with parenting, with the day-to-day happenings that constitute a bustling and living household?

If I am to make any headway on this project, I fear I must schedule — a thing I really hesitate doing, because it’s another sort of added pressure. But if I don’t, if I just let the whole thing go where it wants to, I’m afraid that I won’t get enough done. So, here is a tentative schedule, tied up with a nice red ribbon, just in time for Christmas:

Writing times:

6:30 a.m.: I can get in about a half an hour to 45 minutes, if I start this early. It might be worth it. If I could just get out of bed.

1:00 p.m.: When Liv naps, I write. ON THE BOOK. Write for one hour, or until she wakes up.

8:00 p.m. -10:00 p.m.: After everyone is in bed, write – blogs, book, whatever I am inspired to do.

Of course, there are always those days when I’ll have more time, and also some days less. But this might be a good, basic plan for those “regular” days, when we are all running on our daily rhythm, and buzzing about knowing where we are going, and when we are getting there.

It seems like it might work out. It’s worth a try.

D’ya hear that, book? I’m with you on this. I’m on your side. I want you to be whole, complete, happy, read, loved. I am your partner, your hand to hold, your wooer, your teammate — your mother, for God’s sake. Don’t abandon me, not yet. Stick with me through this frisky, wild-eyed new year.

Let’s make it a good one.

Dec 22

8 Comments

Brittany: A Christmas Miracle

I don’t know how I get anything accomplished.

Part of that is, of course, being mom to a two-year-old and a six-month-old. It’s hard enough to balance motherhood with novel writing. You expect the constant interruptions, the neediness, the asynchronous nap times. But then, sometimes, things happen that you don’t expect.

For me, it all began in October and the SC Writer’s Workshop Writer’s Conference. I had a finished manuscript (or so I thought) and was intent on getting it published. The conference was a tremendous success. Three agents expressed interest in my novel, I won 2nd place in the Carrie McCray Memorial Literary Award for playwriting, and I received valuable feedback on the shortcomings of my novel. I came home feeling empowered, motivated, and ready to plunge into a final re-write.

And then I got the rug pulled out from under me.

Sam scaled the bathroom counter and played with a bottle of Tylenol. I couldn’t be sure he’d ingested any, and it would only take four and a half to cause major liver damage, so Tom and I took both boys to the emergency room where we sat for four hours. A blood test revealed that Sam was fine. His acetaminophen level was zero. But it was there, at the hospital, that I’m pretty sure I contracted the whooping cough that stopped all work on my book in its tracks. And then the whooping cough became pneumonia. I missed Halloween and was still sick at Thanksgiving.

In the meantime, Sam, my two-year-old, developed his first ear infection. A double ear infection. So in between coughing, vomiting, night sweats, and fever, I took turns staying up nights with him, nursing him back to health, for four weeks when the first round of antibiotics didn’t work.

We all felt good for a week, although I still wasn’t 100 percent. During that time, my follow-up x-rays came back from the radiologist. Something didn’t look quite right. One CT scan later, the doctor discovered that my pneumonia was gone. What he hadn’t expected to find was my slightly enlarged thymus. I’m looking at another CT scan in March, and if it is still enlarged, it might have to be removed through sternum splitting surgery.

Then, the first week of December, Sam developed a sinus infection. Shortly thereafter, John got it too. Yellow pus oozing from the eyes, copious green snot, difficulty breathing, two little boys not sleeping. Then Tom got sick. It started out as a cold, but then he developed a sore throat that no medicine would touch. He also had a sinus infection and a throat full of abscesses. I caught a cold. Then began having sinus pressure and rainbow colored sneezes. I fled to the doctor, terrified of another bacterial infection. He prescribed antibiotics for my head cold, as a preventative measure. I’m in a new category of risk now, susceptible to every infection that comes down the pike.

Then yesterday, with antibiotics in our system, I thought we were all on the mend–until Sam had an Exorcist-esque attack of he stomach flu in his carseat on the way home from preschool. I have spent the last 24 hours literally elbow deep in noxious bodily fluids.

Through it all, I’ve been writing. I finagled Sam into five-day preschool. I told Tom to prepare himself, I was finishing the book this year and if nothing else got done, tough. I ran away from home and pounded out draft after draft at the local Panera. My mantra became “little drops of water fill the bucket.”

And today, all those little splashes of words did indeed fill the bucket. The introduction is entirely new. The writing is tight. The story is ready.  And has been sent in its entirety to Agent #1. The book is out there now, in the world, and hopefully, will get published someday.

I’m going to take a writing break for the next few weeks. Thoroughly douse my house in Lysol and clean up the messes I’ve neglected.

Then I’m going back to work on something new.

Dec 9

1 Comment

Cathy: Writer’s Handbook

Most people peruse right past all the weird little articles and ads in the backs of magazines, but not me. I find all manner of wonderful surprises in the nether region of the print world. Some of us avid readers have to literally read every little thing. Recently, I was trying to finish off a month old mag I had lying around, in the same way I read all sides of the cereal box during breakfast as a kid. That endeavor wrought this gem from the back of the Winter 2008 issue of UU WORLD:

The New Writer’s Handbook: 2007 and The New Writer’s Handbook: Volume 2. Ed. By Philip Martin. Scarletta Press, 2007 and 2008: $16.95. This annual anthology of articles by notable authors, journalists, writing instructors, editors, agents, and literary bloggers offers writers advice on their craft and careers, including how-to pieces and topics on professional issues and the creative process.

I immediately regretted using my recent winnings from the weekly creativity contest for a Santa purchase. I may have to wait until father time welcomes his new baby — and the approach of my birthday — to splurge on this for myself, but maybe the rest of our writers might be able to benefit from my neat find. Maybe you can drop a stocking hint to your husband, by leaving your laptop open on the kitchen table where he can see this blog 😉  Enjoy!

Dec 8

11 Comments

Writing about your emotions helps healing

From yesterday’s Boston Globe:

WHILE POLICY WONKS debate how to deliver high-quality healthcare without skyrocketing costs, here’s one opportunity for some cheap, evidence-based medicine. In a recent study, 36 men were asked to write for 20 minutes on three consecutive days. Half the men had to write about their deepest emotions related to a traumatic experience, and the other half had to write about time management. Several weeks later, all the men were given a standard skin biopsy wound. After another couple weeks, the men who had written about the traumatic experience were healing significantly better. It’s believed that writing about a traumatic experience has a latent emotional impact that benefits the immune system.

Weinman, J. et al., “Enhanced Wound Healing after Emotional Disclosure Intervention,” British Journal of Health Psychology (February 2008).

Hmmm….maybe that’s one reason why morning pages are so good for you…?

Nov 18

5 Comments

Anita: The Beeb

Isn’t the BBC fantastic? So many wonderful programmes on art and such amazing costume dramas too! I was lucky enough to catch a programme on Tuesday entitled ‘Imagine: Let there be light’ that focused on American artist James Turrell and his wonderful creations that stir the senses using light as his main medium.

I also caught the second part in the BBC4 series ‘Picture Book‘ on Wednesday. This week’s episode spotlighted books for young readers and offered a feast of wonderful illustrations from books such as Winnie the Pooh and The Wind in the Willows.

Books were not a huge part of my childhood, in fact I don’t remember a single one until, as a teenager, I read the Adrian Mole Diaries. As someone who now wishes to venture into writing and illustrating a book for children, this series has been a priceless form of research and I am really looking forward to the final part on Wednesday this week.

Picture Book Pt3 – BBC4 – 9pm – 19th November

Nov 18

14 Comments

Alana: Is writing compatible with children?

Virginia Wolf didn’t think so. She sacrificed being a mother for being a writer. And didn’t one of those early women writers actually give up her children so she could write? And can we even put down the proliferation of our best-loved Irish writer, Maeve Binchy, down to the fact she has no children?

OK, I hear you saying, what about JK Rowling? Millions of words and millions of pounds later, she’s a shining example of successfully combining motherhood and writing. Aha, I suggest. She writes children’s books. That means she probably gets all her ideas from them, and can count reading over her work as quality child time. She can even arrange playdates with Daniel Radcliffe.

A room of our own? That’s a laugh. I don’t even have a pen of my own. My office? My desk? My room? A large Orla Liely bag which contains all my current musings and laptop that I clutch to my breast looking for a quiet corner of the house. Sometimes the bag retreats to Starbucks and sets up office there. I’m a writer in waiting: waiting for the kids to sleep, waiting for the Dora half hour on TV, waiting for my time to come after everyone else in the house has been taken care of.

I met John Boyne recently. I discovered he wrote the first draft of his bestselling, multi-award-winning, Hollywood-film-showing novel, Boy in the Striped Pyjamas in two and a half days. TWO AND A HALF DAYS! That’s how long it takes me to scrape the Wheetabix off my laptop so I can find the delete button to rid myself of the appalling drivel I wrote the previous week in between cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing, shopping, arse-wiping, knee-kissing, jigsaw constructing, rocket making (cosmic pink with tinfoil windows), and remembering to breathe. Like all good writers, it seems I need a wife. But my kids need a mother, so what’s a woman (writer) to do??

I’ve just had to stop writing this in order to construct a rather fetching ‘tent’ in the playroom by draping some blankets over some chairs. I’m pretty sure Stephen King doesn’t have this problem. (Not that anyone is likely to want to get in a tent, no matter how pink, with Stephen King.) Still, the point is, it’s hard. I know enough wonderful women writers who are mums struggling with the same issues as me (and actually, I’m sure it’s not restricted to writers.) How do we find time to do what we love amid doing what else we love? To clarify, I mean being with our children is the other thing we love. I did not mean, and never will mean, thinking about what food to give us all, shopping for the food I’ve still not thought about, cooking the food I’m still not sure what it’s going to be — just something that starts with the left over onion in the fridge and see where my (lack of) inspiration takes me, washing up the dishes the food was not eaten off, hoovering the food off the floor, and washing the clothes that are covered with the food I’ve been thinking about all day.

How do I correlate wanting to be a full-time mum with being a full-time writer? How do I even correlate being a part-time mum with a part-time writer? I can’t, because I can never be a part-time mum or a part-time writer. Both are in my blood. Both are what I am. I cannot successfully be one without the other. If I was no longer a mum, I would have no inspiration to write. If I was no longer a writer I would be a terrible, disgruntled unhappy mum.

I don’t know if that makes me bad at both, or just in one of those places that no matter how often I ask the question, there really just is no answer.

So I’ll carry on being both, doing both, shunting one in front of the other occasionally, trying to find the balanced line. I’ve just danced with them to Abba, and read the Princess book. Again. Now they’re having tea with dad, and I’m clutching my Orla Kieley bag to my chest. My time.

Nov 17

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Cathy: Exalted Warrior – or is it ‘exhausted’?

11-13-2008yogablog-006After Miranda’s blog on “Someday,” I began to rethink things. A big thing I began to rethink is how I’ve gone from my daily walks down to nothing in the concept of exercise or taking care of myself. That was number two on my comment list. I’ve noticed a considerable increase in crankiness because of it, too; as well as less efficiency in writing my manuscript. I won’t go into the aches and pains.

Before my past year-plus spent in bed, I had a regular routine of a 20-minute yoga tape I did for years at least three times per week. Before I was in bed, I walked the dog quickly, and mowed the lawn myself with an ecologically sound, human-powered rotary blade mower. I cut down dead bushes, dug out root balls and hand-tilled my gardens by myself. Mind you, none of this was ever easy for me, as I have back issues going as far back as age 12 and bad knees, shoulder, etc, too. Physical strength was never my strong suit.

After my year in bed, I had taken a while to get back on my feet. This summer I started with walking the dog, pushing Baby C in the stroller, because I literally couldn’t stand on my own. I was determined, though, and daily, no matter how much it hurt, how tired I was, how hot it got here — around 100 degrees most days — at 11:00 in the morning, there I was, dog on a leash, baby, bottle of water, canvas bag hanging from stroller filled with books — reading, writing, Wreck this Journal, and camera inside. Neighbors spotted me and waved on the street loop of my subdivision. I swear it was these walks (along with this website) and my recouping meditative sits on the bench by the fingerlake that got me back to a state where I could consider breaking out my old, not forgotten project.

A couple of weeks back, somehow, by rain, cold or sheer sleep deprivation, I fell out of the habit. Co-incidentally, my writing progress fell off, too. Then I read Miranda’s blog post. Several days were spent considering I may be in enough recovery from my super-relaxin hormone problem to start doing yoga again without coming apart at every joint.

Today, I got Baby C to nap, and cleaned out the video cabinet in the search for my old reliable yoga tape. Among other surprises, I discovered a broken shelf held up by the strategic placement of a Raiders of the Lost Ark videotape — need to have a discussion with certain young male family members. But finally, I did the yoga tape. I’m finding long-forgotten muscles creeping up on me a couple of hours later, but I feel much more relaxed, less impatient than yesterday. Maybe tonight I can get through homework with S without the recent dramas — mine, not his. Those are to be expected. And maybe the gears of fiction will grind back on, squeaky and creaky, matching body during yoga, but on nonetheless.

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