Oh, sad wasteland!

How many times do I need to remember that "blogging in my head" will not actually lead to, you know, words on the page? While my mental alter ego has been industriously writing pithy posts for your amusement, the real me has been sadly less well-engaged. Not that I don't have reason. TEG is in India for the next three weeks--his mother grew ill while on vacation and is still there. He needs to help with her therapy and to bring her home when she is ready. She is MUCH better, though, so big sighs of relief all around.

But...this has all meant that I am living through one of my big fears, that of being a single mother.

It is not *quite* as bad as I thought. Oh, sure, I am tired of being on duty all the time. But having TEG gone has actually given me some space to think about our relationship. While I adore him, I don't always adore *myself* while with him. I spend a lot more time running around doing scut work while he is home, in part because he generates a lot of mess for a grown man, but mostly because I want to prove to him that I am not slacking off, that I work hard even though I don't work for money.

I realized, again, that I don't feel equal in our marriage because I am not earning money. I feel like I have to hold my house and my mothering to a sterling example so that I don't get accused of being lazy. The phrase, "Why isn't everything perfect? It's not like you do ANYTHING else?" hangs over me. The thing is...I know this is (mostly) my own stuff. So how do I move past it? How do I convince myself that I am a fully accredited partner in this marriage, even if the house gets a little dusty while I try to write? Because, dear bloggy friends, I am about to let you in on a little secret.

I know that I am doing all this because I am scared. I am procrastinating, and beating myself up about the house, and about the fact that Madam isn't doing precalculus yet (you should meet the kids at her toddler class--smarties, all!), because it's easier to use all of time-honored reasons to pummel myself than face the truth. Which is, of course, that I am loster-than-lost with my writing, and I don't even know where to START again.

Well, THIS went in an unexpected direction. I just got that tingle, though, the one that tells me that I have just hit on something *true*.

You all are better than therapy.

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Tagged! Writing advice...

From this site.

The amazing Delia tagged me to write out three pieces of writing advice that I would like to share with others. It’s interesting. I have wanted to do a post like this for a while, but have always hesitated. Why? I don’t know…didn’t think I had the authority to give advice, needing so much of it myself? I guess I wanted to wait until I felt like I had THE answer—the perfect pieces of advice that would enable anyone (or, OK, me) to get off their excuses and start writing prolifically.

Sadly, this has not quite happened. But, upon reflection, I do think I have things to share—things that have helped me start, and continue, and start again.

Treat your material kindly: The writing books expound often on writing what you know, and that’s not what I mean here. I am talking about those moments when you feel gripped by a topic, or a theme, or a type of character. Sometimes I am dismayed by how much my stories tend to resemble each other, and I am embarrassed by how small they feel. I start to want to write about BIG subjects—war, or terrorism, or global warming.

And then I block.

Because, see, I am pulled towards the stories I tell. I want to write about those who feel like literature is what happened to other people. I want to leave a record of the heroism in these lives, even if the inhabitants themselves can’t see it. Because I can.

So I will continue to crawl over every inch of my material, like an ant who wants to see the whole world. I will continue to write about what calls me. After all, there are lots of people to write the tales of Big History. I’ll be here writing about the bodega owners who live above the store and Minerva the Cat Lady, who likes to drive with them tucked in a basket in her front seat, with access to the window.

Find your community—in people and in books: When I became a mother, I felt like I had already fallen behind. Because with the birth of my Madam, I also gave birth to a surprisingly fierce ambition. I had always wanted to write and had even made some serious attempts at it while I lived in Chicago. But something about holding my daughter in my arms, staring into her dizzying little face, made me long to BE something for her. To show her something in me that, prior to her existence, I wasn’t sure I had. I wanted her to be proud of me.

So I went online, found all of you, not all mothers (not even all women!) but all committed to your creativity and your passions.

And then I started to read books on motherhood and creativity. I needed to believe that it was possible, and the books told me, over and over, yes it is. I return to certain favorite essays often—Anne Tyler’s patient voice has pushed me back towards the keyboard on many days when I couldn’t see past my own irritation and exhaustion. I clutch Judith Cofer Ortiz’s stories about waking up at 5am when her children were small with gratitude (even if I haven’t been able to do that yet). And on days when I just cannot do ANYTHING, I remember that Patry Francis said that she didn’t manage any serious writing when her children were under six.

That seemed to work out well for her. And it gives me hope.

So find those books, those blogs, those people who make it all seem possible and use them to buoy you up when your own life preserver starts to, well, sink. To mix metaphors, if you put on your own mask first (like they say on the plane) you’ll be able to help someone else.

Show others what you can do: This was a tough one for me; still is. I went years without showing my writing to anyone outside of a writing class. It didn’t read like “real writing,” or else it was “too small,” or “not ready.”

Nothing has helped my writing more, and nothing keeps me writing like posting on this blog. Yes, the pieces are rough, unpolished, occasionally awkward. I am definitely experimenting. But your feedback, your questions and enthusiasms help me see my own work as something outside of myself. And that helps me to make it better.

It’s scary to put yourself out there, even in a safe place like a blog. It stings when people don’t seem to respond to a piece I think works. But…it’s good to see that.

And when you like something and tell me that it moves you, well, NOTHING motivates me quite as quickly. It makes it all feel real, and possible. Because it’s not theoretical anymore. Once you put a piece of fiction out, it’s an admission that it matters to you. You are not thinking about writing, you are writing.

So thank you for that.

As far as who I will tag for my three….so many great bloggers have been tagged already! But I don’t think I have seen responses from Amber, Jessie, and Deirdre, so those are my three.

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Not much

For the past week (what is that you say, it's only Wednesday? Surely you jest...) I have been reading what I like to call “mom-help” books...a lovely subset of self-help that aims to help mothers get back in touch with their inner pre-mommy selves. It's a lovely idea. Really, it is.

So why have I been sniping at Ariel Gore, “Oh, sure, easy for YOU to say...you are obviously naturally creative and also younger and more energetic...” and Vicki Iovine, “Your YOUNGEST kid is six? You are in the gravy, lady”?

Because while I agree with the books that I CAN be a mama and a writer, lover, thinker, and I CAN roar, at the moment...it's taking all of my energy just to be a mother. Every day is a fulcrum, and I feel so perilously perched at the top, trying to throw my weight to balance. I can always feel when things are sliding into anarchy. I just can't seem to do anything about it when it happens.

I realized I just want to be told, “Hey, it's OK to rest...to put those ambitions aside for a little while and zone out. It's OK to not be able to do everything, even to not WANT to.”

This brings me back, as all things do, to my writing. Lately, dragging myself to the keyboard at the end of another exhausting day (seriously, toddlers are exhausting in a whole different way from newborns...I didn't know that!) is just...well, it's not happening. And I have been feeling so guilty about that, skulking around, redoubling my efforts to read or work on my character sketches or...something, anything.

Yesterday, as I rocked Madam to sleep in the dark, singing the 90th verse of my version of Old MacDonald, I started to cry with the weight and the guilt of it all. Of wanting to want to write, and knowing that I just did not. Knowing that so many other mothers have done it so well. Knowing that I have said that I couldn't, and then I could, but knowing that finally, no, really, I just can't. And a sentence flashed across my mind.

I can't bring myself to force myself to do one more thing.

All day, I drag myself through cooking and cleaning and Madam-care and more cooking, more cleaning, more laundry. Keeping Madam quiet while TEG works, and talks to clients on the phone. Grocery shopping. Madam's activities. And then, at the very end of my day, I don't want there to be still more to do. Especially something which is not fulfilling or rewarding me much lately.

I am tired of arguing with reality. This is my life, right now. TEG is frenetically busy. Madam needs lots of care. And, well, someone needs to clean the bathrooms and do everything else, and that someone, by default at the moment, is me.

So, I'm taking a break. Not from this blog, or from my journal. Just from any effort to write anything fictional until I can get my head back together and start to enjoy it again, even a little.

It feels like the right decision, it does.

Even if it makes me want to cry again, a little, when I think about it.

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Can mothers think?

In her essay, Can Mothers Think?, Jane Smiley talks about the dearth of great literature written from a maternal point of view. She points out that much of the celebrated books written by women have been written by daughters, women who have never had children. Of course, much of that has changed. Jane Smiley, Alice Walker, Ursula LeGuin, Toni Morrison. All daughters, all mothers, and all fabulous writers. In fact, Smiley talks about how motherhood actually improved her creativity and thought--added urgency and richness.

Of course, it helps if you start out being Jane Smiley.

This happened to me as well. The first year or so of Madam's life was probably the most creative time of my life. I was writing again, after years of only thinking about it. I could play with ideas and characters while I tended to her. I started this blog. It was good.

But the title of the essay continues to haunt me, though, because I've been having a bit of trouble thinking myself lately. Madam is so active, so engaged, so fully PRESENT that it takes all of me to deal with her—my energy, my body, and especially my mind. I find myself missing those drowsy (well, comparatively) infant days where I could be with her even while I daydreamed about my latest story, or blog post. Now, every nerve strains with attention, all of the time. Life has become a tense, operatic thing, like a war, or a flood.

Madam: Where Doggie? Doggie? DOGGIE! (prepares to fling herself on the ground to protest this cruel separation from her Beloved).

Doggie is produced.

Madam: Ah! Doggie! Kiss! Kiss! (falls into rapturous joy. until the next crisis.)

It's like she's gunning for a toddler Oscar.

And I am tired. Sleep, never easy here at Chez Madam, has become naught but a distant memory.

Mothers...share your secrets. I seem to have forgotten how to do this whole “balance” thing. I ADORE my Madam, and I am thrilled at everything she is. In fact, sometimes when she is finally asleep, I catch myself using this precious non Toddler time to think about...well, her. And how much I am enthralled by her. Trust me, I know how lucky I am to be with her as much as I am. It's great, exhausting, all-encompassing fun. So much so that even when I am not with her, I can't seem to transition back to myself. And I have a delicious new idea taking shape—a new story. But...I can't ever seem to work on it. Late at night, I have to remind myself to think about it, at least. And then I feel guilty, like I am abandoning my little brain people, and possibly myself.

I miss my mind. And I miss your minds. At the end of almost every day lately, I barely have the energy to lift the lid on my nifty laptop. So I am horribly behind on every blog I love. But there is hope for the future...TEG is toying with the idea of taking some much needed time off. I can barely contain my excitement—writing time! blogging time! Coffee with Jessie (and possibly even Emmie or herbal tea [finally] with Kate)! Sleep, sweet blessed non-toddlerized SLEEP!

Oh, and maybe TEG and I will even get to spend some time together. It could happen.

So...this post doesn't do much to further the idea that THIS mother thinks, although obviously I agree with Jane Smiley that mothers can think.

After the toddler years.

(PS: I started this post last night after Madam went down. I was interrupted five times in an hour, and finally finished it now--at 1:03pm CST)

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East, West, Home's Best

From here

When is a vacation not exactly a vacation?

When it leads to an unintended blogging break. I was prepared, nestling my new Macbook into the diaper bag like a cherished egg. Already anticipating the time I would have to write, while sipping some delicious cafe Cubano in my parents' sunny kitchen.

But, alas and alack...someone tampered with their wireless router and despite my best geeky attempts, I was unable to fix it.

It wasn't all terrible, though. I'm always inspired at my parents' house (which is strange, since they tend to be so critical of me) and this time was no different. Without the distraction of the internet, I was able to sit down and patiently retrace my steps through my story, figuring out where I was stuck and planning a tentative work-around. I was also able to read three wonderful novels, and two writing books besides. So, productive.

I missed this place, though. It was strange to be around people who aren't obsessed with what they are writing, or painting, or thinking.

I like our way better.
One slightly worrisome question for the parents out there—is it normal for Madam to be so uncomfortable around my parents, still? She saw them in July for her birthday (for a week) and just spent ten days at their house. And yet, she won't be alone in a room with them (seriously, she was my little toddler shadow for ten days; I had to shower with her sitting on the floor of the bathroom, watching, unless I waited until after bedtime) or even really allow them to carry her. Am I doing something wrong? It makes me feel horribly guilty, especially since my parents adore her and would gladly spend their time lavishing her with loving attention.

More later when I am less exhausted. I cannot WAIT to catch up with all of your blogs!

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Coming up for air

William Wordsworth said that poetry (and thus, writing) is “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings from emotions recollected in tranquility.” Which might be the reason I am getting so little writing done lately. My days are full of emotion, all right, but tranquility?

I’ve re-read some of the posts I wrote last year, and I’m amazed at how lucid they are, in spite of the severe sleep deprivation. Once I learned to ride the waves of hallucinogenic exhaustion, my mind adjusted. So why can’t I do it now?

One word. Tantrums. Tantrums that leave me frustrated, confused, and guilty. I understand that the severity and frequency of Madam’s freak outs is related to the fact that she cannot speak. But…shouldn’t I be able to do SOMETHING to mitigate their ferocity?

And therein lies the guilt. Why doesn’t she speak? Is something wrong? What am I doing wrong? Because, of course, it must be my fault. So I spend the whole night marinating in recrimination and second-guessing—not exactly fertile states for the would-be novelist. Especially one who still feels so unsure, like I am breaking all of Aristotle’s rules of drama at once. If I am going to spend precious mother-energy writing a novel, I need to justify it by being very, very good at it. And, of course, nothing kills "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings" faster than THAT.

The very act of wanting to write the novel makes me anxious, as though I should be spending that time reading parenting books.

Now, a confession, much as I love research and reading, I hate reading parenting books. Inevitably, they suggest changes in our routines that I am not sure we need to make, or they give me solutions that don’t seem to work on Madam. And they contradict each other wildly—console her when her emotions grow overwhelming! No, ignore her, otherwise she’ll learn that tantrums get her what she wants! Try to reason with her! No, distract her! No…

You get the idea.

Not to mention the fact that after a whole day of being Mommy, the last thing I want to do when I’m off-duty is read about all of the mistakes I made while being Mommy that day.

That being said, clearly, something is wrong here. There has to be something I can do. At the very least, I can spend every evening harshly blaming myself over every parenting decision I’ve ever made. Some nights, I even go back to her NICU stay—did we miss some crucial bonding window while she was there? Did I not spend enough time with her? Did she pick up some hint of my fear and uncertainty at the idea of being entrusted with her WHOLE LIFE?

Last night, while talking to a dear friend who suffers from anxiety, I mentioned that worry can feel like it’s giving us some modicum of control—at least we’re CONCERNED and AWARE! Even if that concern is completely depleting us, and the awareness is accomplishing nothing.

I need to take my own advice.

I know that on some level, I am feeling guilty for wanting to work on my writing at all—because I should be tirelessly devoted to Madam. And…is the novel the culprit here? Those times that I spend daydreaming about characters and plots—are those the times that Madam could be learning to speak, but isn’t? I read to her a great deal; should I read more? Different books? Do I talk to her too much? Not enough? Is too much of my speech over her head? Are those moments I steal to write while she is watching television ruining her?

Am I being selfish for believing that I can write a novel and be a good mother at the same time?

So I pay my penance. I have started reading parenting books—gentle ones that don’t imply that you have probably ALREADY ruined your child for life. I get enough of that from my parents.

Someday, I’ll look back on all this and smile, if not quite laugh.

And I’ll spend hours talking with my Madam about my latest book.

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In which I gush, frankly. And voice confusion.

Why is it easier to write about whatever is going wrong in life?

Floating like scum on the surface of my life are a lot of complaints. Too tired, not enough time, writing goes poorly, etc etc and endless so forth. It’s easy, and shallow, and fills up the morning pages.

But it’s not even close to the deepest truth. The truth, dear reader, is that I am in love. Deliriously in love. With my little Madam. It’s so difficult for me to write about her without sounding maudlin. I’m struck dumb by her. Both TEG and I are. We say that we’re “besotted” which is exactly right, as it evokes two swains jockeying to present tributes to their fair lass. I watch the way the sunlight plays in her curly hair, the way her small hand turns the pages of her books so deftly. I'm fascinated by her beauty--she looks nothing like TEG and I, and yet, it's obvious that she's our child. I have the urge to take little nibbles of her, to consume her, to carry some essence of her inside of me again.

It amazes me that I can spend all day walking and playing with someone under two and find such pleasure in it. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of us in a store mirror, walking side by side, and I feel as though I’m expanding into some greater version of myself. I’m not such a good person that I deserve her.

And who else knows that we NEVER EVER pass a bookstore without going inside?

Not to say that it’s always perfection—she IS a toddler, after all, and has more than her share of toddler moments and tantrums. But, oh, the joy she brings to me keeps me in a haze of love for her.

Today, we went to our first toddler/mommy class. It was fascinating to watch all of the little ids negotiate such difficult (and counterintuitive) tasks as sharing, waiting. Patience. Madam struggled with these, as did all of the other children. But, once she was comfortable, I was able to step into the background and watch her labor with the slide (and triumph). I was able to see her clap and cheer for the other children who went down the slide, because, hey, slides are FUN whether you are the actor or spectator, apparently. It filled me with a feeling that I couldn’t quite name for a moment. Then it occurred to me. Hope. Being a mother is something I never thought I would be…I never thought I would WANT it, honestly. But being a mother has reintroduced me to hope. And I am so grateful.

So, like I said, maudlin. Apologies all around. But it needed to be said. I never knew I was capable of this—of this maturity, of this resourcefulness, of this pleasure. And it’s all because of her.
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The other day, after yet another bookstore adventure (Madam made me go inside, I swear, I was going to go past it), I bought a few books. Feeling the need to confess, I called Jessie. She and I have a bit of a running joke that certain books will “save” us. The thing is, I DO think I believe that, at least a little bit. How else to explain that breath-catching little frission of excitement that comes over me when I see a new book that seems to promise a lesson that I’d otherwise have to wait my whole life to learn?

Not surprisingly, most of these books are writing books. And not surprisingly, they tend to lose their magic powers as soon as they enter my house and reunite with all of their writing book brethren.

I’m especially susceptible to this phenomena lately, because the novel has ground to a slow drag. I can’t seem to remember what excited me about my main character to begin with, and I’m firmly mired in the muck of the Middle.

This wonderful post likens the rewriting process to the seven stages of grief. Even though I'm still in the first draft stage, I could see the wisdom in that.

Writers, artists, lend me your tips. How do you jumpstart a stalled project?
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Madam will have her speech evaluation on Friday. Wish us luck, please. I'm so nervous.

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A breath of celebration

Writing in my morning pages this morning was an exercise of me wrestling uncomfortably with novel issues of form and point of view and those damned myths which haunt me but REFUSE to get into their rightful spaces...

Then I took a breath, stopped and stared at the passionate squiggle of my words on the page. One question after another--all reminding me that I am a beginner, that I am confused, that not-knowing can be damned unpleasant.

But last year, when I started this blog, the big questions were COULD I write? WAS I ever going to be a writer? Now, the questions have shifted to specifics--about craft, about characters and themes, and scheduling and time and tired fingers. Somewhere along the way, the distant, misty goal became a daily, present reality. Frustrating, but like with the Madam, SO much better than what came before that I can barely contain it.

The earlier questions about WILL I? CAN I? have been answered. I will, and I can, and I AM.

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Good things and bad things

• I’m not sure how it happened, but I’ve fallen behind. I missed Week 1 of Finding Water; I missed Sunday Scribblings. I’m barely online. It’s not a good thing. I have been doing my pages and I even went on a mini artists date last week—a long stroller walk with Madam, a half hour browsing in a bookstore, and Mexican lunch out. I don’t exactly know if it filled my well, but it was wonderful to be out with her. See haiku below (inspired by that day, so maybe it DID refill my well).

• I’m strangely consumed by some thing that is sapping my strength. Not illness, exactly, just…I can’t sleep at night. My mind races and I toss and turn (well, carefully, so as not to wake the lightly sleeping Madam).

• One VERY good thing is that I am finally, FINALLY working on my novel again. Not just taking notes, not just ceremoniously circling my laptop, but actually daring to throw words on the screen. It’s taught me something, which I’m sharing here so I don’t forget it:

• Even when the writing is BAD, it makes everything else feel better—like the weak limbed satisfaction of a good swim. It makes long days of laundry, dishes, diapers, tantrums, overworked TEG, not sleeping…it makes it ALL better.

• I’m trying very very hard not attach anything else to the writing but the writing. I’m trying very very hard to silence that carping voice in my head, the Woman I Should Be—the one who is not only writing, but also embarking on a spiritual quest, spending time with a thriving community of artists and writers, wearing black velvet and elaborate hairdos, and traveling to India for chai and inspiration. She sees me working on ONE of the things on the list, writing, and immediately begins to punish me for not allowing her to breathe in the real world, for not allowing her to exist outside of my head.

• I know I need to make friends with her, but for now, I’m just writing. Everything else can wait.

• I just read a new writing book that taught me a fun exercise—pick a literary family! I’ve decided Anais Nin is my mother, William Stafford is my father, Julia Alvarez is my cool older sister, Anne Rice is my slightly dodgy aunt, Virginia Woolf is my forbidding, but beloved grandmother, F. Scott Fitzgerald is the black sheep uncle. I could go on, but you get the idea.

• You should see us at parties.

• Have I mentioned that my novel involves a great deal of Greek mythology? Which gives me an excuse to research and re-read them, always fun. Here is a poetry snippet that came to me while I was deeply dreaming about Persephone and Demeter.

Red seed of earth
Touches tongue, flares
An ember
Hot then dark
Burning with the inevitable
Between mother and her.

All is not as it was.
The dread clings to the daughter’s hair like smoke
Her face, the same, and not.
Demeter watches
Grief falls on her face in tired lines
Old words impotent
Fall to the floor like eggs
Persephone wants to crawl back into her mother’s eyes,
To speak again with the Mother’s mouth

But the blood red seed has taken root
In the maiden mouth
And sows the Unsayable on her tongue

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On the shelf

Today I learned that I feel guilty—Madam is moving well into toddlerhood, i.e. thoroughly out of control—and I feel myself split into two, with both selves pulled inexorably towards words and writing and my beloved books. Meanwhile, the maintenance of the house gets far beyond me—the carpet gritty with pebbles that crunch under Madam’s tender bare feet, the kitchen floor sandy with crumbs and scatterings that she’ll gleefully put in her mouth. I spend every moment I can (and many I can’t, technically) reading, or planning what I am going to write, or feeling despair as I watch a barely gelled new idea sink back into formlessness, growing indistinct, weary, fluttering dead before I can get to paper or the keyboard. And many times lately, no ideas come at all—I sit, staring at nothing, trying to swivel my pupils back towards an inner life, but concentration and ideas never come.

Writing always needs to come after; after bedtime, after the house, after dinner, after, after, after. And when I get to after, there's nothing there--no energy, no imaginative power, nothing. And yet, trying to ignore all of the things, to lose myself in my writer's mind...well, that's not working either. I'm always acutely aware of my sink of dirty dishes and my tottering baskets of laundry, and they loom larger than anything I can concoct in my imagination. So I try everything, and end up with nothing but a howling toddler, a room that should be condemned, ideas that flutter away, and a constriction of resentment at my throat, choking utterance.

I feel jealous of other writers who can accomplish so much more that I can lately; feel rebellious at the piecings of my time. I want to gobble my books, not nibble with constant half-starts and half-stops and crash, bang, keep the baby’s finger out of the drawer. I want to pound away at a longer, more ambitious story instead of my little wisps. I want to see my writing form under my hands, get better. And I can’t, right now. That's not my life right now, regardless of how much I wish it could be.

She’s napping so little and night sleep is a topic best left unexplored. I want so much to take courage from the past—those women who have somehow managed to create beauty and meaning even as they chase toddlers around and around a small room. But it’s difficult when all I can see are the impossible summits being scaled by the nimble childfree.

I’m just tired of it—tired of feeling tension before I write, so sure I’ll be interrupted just when it starts to loosen and flow. Tired of feeling resentful of my Madam, who can’t help needing me, after all. Feeling vaguely disgusted by my unkempt house, overwhelmed by tasks which are constantly shunted aside to gain me five more minutes of writing time. Writing which comes with a stifled scream of haste and an aftertaste of guilt, writing which feels so very important and yet emerges with only a whimper of mediocrity.

I wish I could treat it lightly, an amusing hobby, perhaps like building elaborate train sets. But that’s a lie—I am full of unseemly ambition—I want to be not only a good writer (which I think I do manage on occasion) but a great one, famous, acknowledged. And that feels impossible right now, because I can’t seem to produce anything while in this life situation.

This sneaking and stealing time doesn’t satisfy—I’m endlessly frustrated, hungry, gulping at air. It only reinforces my feeling of being on the outside, looking in. I feel breathless before my day even begins, knowing that I'm behind before even leaving the bed.

I need to choose, but there is no choice, is there. I need to be a good mother. I need to take better care of my house. We can’t afford help right now, or rather I can’t quite justify it. I'm a stay at home mother, after all, why should I need housekeeping? TEG is very busy with building his company, working long hours into the night himself. We have no family around to share the burden. I say this not to arouse your pity (although I have a sizable amount of self-pity already) but to try to really SHOW you where I’m at. I know that other mothers manage; I don’t know why I cannot, except to admit that I am no great planner, no organizer. And thus everything teeters until it falls down.

Like the fox from the old story, I rationalize—what is the great loss, anyway? I do like certain, isolated sentences; certain skeletons of stories I’ve written—I do see possibilities for growth. But there is just no time.

So I have to lay it aside for a bit, hope that this silent time adds layers and richness to my imagination until I have time to concentrate on it more fully. But I just can’t keep up this half-life, everything scattered in pieces around me. I need to concentrate on Madam now, and not so much on my writing or myself. This is not the time to be selfish. I wish I could say that the mother role is a light cloak, a second skin, but it’s not. I’m struggling to raise another over myself. It’s not easy for me. I’m still absorbed with me, with my own zealous literary dreams. And that’s not fair to Madam—I can’t do it all, I’m barely holding one of my roles together with outstretched arms.

So I’m putting it on the shelf for a time, and hoping that I'll soon have the means and the desire will still burn when I get back to it.

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Bad poetry, aka where I'm at--the part-time, part-self

Neither this thing
Nor that

Clumsy

Start and stop
Once washing then rewashing
First thought, second thought, third thought
Gone
Only inferior
Interior fragments
Survive

Childish things around me
As I bend low to remake them
Into order
And fail

Brilliant literature
A distant galaxy of stars
The light filters
Low and late
But I'm looking down

Trapped by a shiny plastic immediacy
My mind grows mute, weary
And finally
Silent
Stunned into sudden wisdom

I am ridiculous

Selves thrown careless in every room
Under unmade beds
Not wholly mother
Nor writer after all
Insignificant and shamed

I trace smaller and smaller circles
No one will ever see

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