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Baby Steps

My very first blog post says something pithy like, "Writers write."  Yes, they do.  And apparently they also do laundry, shuttle kids to baseball games, pack lunches and waste time on Facebook. 

I started this blog so that I would write.  Because, quite simply, I wanted to be a writer.  So, I blogged every day for the first bit.  Really, I did.  Hard to believe it now, isn't it, when I'm doing well to get in a couple of columns a month? 

My brilliant author friend Bonnie noted in her recent Fiction Matters blog post that what writers actually like to do is everything but write.  They (We) like to talk about writing, talk about books, perhaps (and I take liberties here) even talk about what's for dinner. 

My personal take is that I like the idea of having created rather than the process of actually creating.  I think this translates to other things--wouldn't it be nice to have the newborn without having the nine months of morning sickness, sleepless nights and ill-fitting maternity clothes?

But then I remember, that means I would have missed the feeling of the lives that have grown inside me.  Even now, when I am quite positive that we are done having children around this casa, it does make me a little sad to realize I won't have that feeling of a baby's first movements again.  Granted by month 9, when his or her little skull is resting quite uncomfortably on your bladder, maybe that feeling is more bitter than sweet.  But there are so many wonderful things that do come with the process of creating--feelings, nuances and of course, the ability to take a nap in the middle of the afternoon or eat a pint of Ben & Jerry's with downright encouragement from others rather than disdain.

In writing, as with life, I suppose it is indeed the journey and not just the destination--which in this case we hope to be the top of the New York Times Best-Seller list.  So although I cannot promise to completely eschew Facebook, I will do my best not to let my pretty little head be distracted by all the sparkly things it offers.  The things that take me away from that thing that I profess to love--writing--are worthy of my disdain. Especially laundry.  Oooh, and cleaning toilets--really disdainful.

I have a story in my head and no private catered island on which to hunker down and write.  It's just going to have to be squished in between baseball games and grocery shopping. I am not the first to do so, neither will I be the last.  An island of my own may be too much to ask for, but a room of my own has to start in my head--at least til I make that first million.

To the 26 people who do faithfully read here at WordMom, thanks so much for the encouragement.  I'll need it.  And if you have a private island to loan out, I would gladly accept that as well.  I'll even name a character after you.

 

 

Any Old Ritz Cracker Casserole in a Storm

It's another stormy day here in Dixie Alley. 

Don't know where that is?  I didn't either til a friend mentioned that I was in Tornado Alley--and like a mom whose just been told her kid is both ugly AND deviant, I completely rebelled against that label. 

So I went to the source of all knowledge, Google, which sent me to the Great and Powerful Oz of the Internet, Wikipedia.  And thus, all was revealed.  I apparently live in Dixie Alley, which is much like Tornado Alley, except it sounds better and if your trailer park gets hit in a storm, we bring you fried food, gravy and biscuits.  Or a casserole topped with French's French Fried Onions or Ritz Crackers.

These blustery days of spring would likely be even too much for dear Pooh Bear, whom I believe I just saw flying past my window holding tight to Piglet's hand.  They are predictable, and yet, unpredictable.  We can watch them creeping towards us like some great colorful amoeba on the radar screen.  Trained professionals show us the hooks in the storm, tell us what time to the minute that the storm will be in our area, and even call out our streets by name. 

But in the end, it's random.  Of the thousands of folks crowded in basements, bathrooms and various other safe places at any given moment, most of them may never see the real storm.  And often those who do never saw it coming.

What do we want out of life?  Do we want to live on edge, in a state of constant awareness, amidst our cases of bottled water and canned foods?  Because you know, canned gravy just isn't the same.  Any Southerner will tell you that.

Even though I am often a big glowing ball of anxiety, I think I'd rather enjoy the sound of the rain than stay fearful of the storm.  It's a fine line I walk, because in all honesty--I do drive a Volvo.  I like knowing that a consistent paycheck is coming every week.  I buy the same shirt in three colors--and those colors are usually white, black and my wild card, green.  Maybe blue if I'm feeling crazy. 

At the same time, I am learning--some days, against my will--to take life as it comes.  Blustery day, tornadoes and all.  If I spend all my time worrying about the future, I'm missing out on some pretty amazing present.  So, being the organizer I am, I have now chosen to spend only 18.6% of my time worrying about the future.  Except that I have kids so 18.5% of that time is actually spent worrying about THEIR future.

It's a big scary world out there, and we don't need Piglet to tell us that.  All we can predict is that things will be unpredictable.  Know where your safe place is in case you need it.  Drive a Volvo.  You can never have too many white shirts.  And don't forget to stock up on Ritz crackers in case you have a friend in need.