Wedging in the practice

July 6, 2012 By


Write, write, write, they say.

They meaning writers, and agents who represent writers, and anyone who likes to sound important. Steven King says that writers must be readers, always absorbing words.  At a bus station or waiting for a train, we must all be carrying books and appreciating the written voice.  He’s right, of course.  They are all right.  And yet I spent two hours today fighting with a two-year-old to go down for a nap, and washing dishes, and planning my daughter’s birthday party.  I went to the mall and debated for at least ten solid minutes whether I should spend a hundred bucks on a lamp at Pottery Barn.  I’m ashamed to admit that I dug into my garbage pail of a purse today at the grocery store to find a pair of reading glasses in order to study a full-length essay about exactly why Katie Holmes is leaving Tom Cruise.  I was just standing there reading People Magazine while other normal people whizzed by to stand in the Express Lane, or head on over to the fresh strawberries.  They were all getting their stuff taken care of so they could get home and read Sherlock Holmes, most likely.  All I read these days is Nancy Drew Mysteries to my six-year-old.  And People, apparently.  It’s disgraceful.

I write.  Sure.  At the trail end of the day when I’m supposed to be paying bills.  I write after everyone has gone to sleep.  I write despite my feet going numb and my hair a big greasy mess because it’s the way my brain processes things, and lately I’ve begun to not care how it comes out.  It’s not disciplined.  It’s not crafty.  It’s sloppy and mushy like a Days of Our Lives re-run.

Maybe it’s no surprise that I don’t have an agent, or a publisher, or anything really, aside from a handful of dear friends and online followers who read my blog to laugh about my bad days.  The fact is – I’m so good in person.  Presentable and tall and fun to be with.  When I give speeches, I feel the energy radiate around the room. My pitches to agents in person are always met with yes. A “send it right over to me/I’m running to check your email right now” type of yes.  And then I do.  And it’s forever stuck in a black hole.  Or worse, rejected.  Then I wallow in self-pity for not writing more, or reading more, or not working on my damn craft.

I’ve intentionally avoided looking at my novel for some time now.  It’s saved in multiple places in my documents folder.

            Final Draft for Agent X. 

            First Fifty Pages. 

            Edited.Long.Version.With.New.Intro.

Some for agents, some for myself.  They are all just sitting there, untouched.  Silent.  Forgotten.

I’m moving my focus to a new novel.  A story about a disjointed family with a hidden secret.  But let’s not kid ourselves.  My focus is mental, meaning I think about the plot, characters, and setting while in the shower or driving the kids to the library or buying ground meat.  But I’m not writing.

It took me four years to wedge a book into my then-busy life.  The late nights and sparse weekends.  The early mornings and babysitters.  And now it just sits there in a dusty, online shelf.  I have one more child now than I did then, and the thought of starting over is depressing.

I’m not sure why being published is such a brass ring.  It’s the thought of being heard, I suppose.  That’s what Rachelle Gardner suggested.  She’s a solid literary agent that has never responded to my written query.  I don’t blame her.  I don’t blame any of them.  I don’t fault Jenny Bent or Joe Veltre or Rebecca Oliver for saying no, even thought I wanted so very badly for them to like me.  There are dozens of agents I still highly respect that rejected my novel. There are just so many writers, and books, and voices.  It’s the Tower of Babble out there with all the yelling and begging.  A person can get lost out there.  They can get overrun.

That’s what I tell myself, at least.  How does a girl have time to write, or be heard?  But then I look down and see evidence of Katie Holmes in my hand, like a bloody knife from a crime scene.  I stuff the magazine back in between the metal bars before I’m discovered.

But life is life.  There’s no use piling a heaping scoop of guilt on the top of it.  Amidst lessons on how two-year-olds should not hit or scream and between multiple requests for more Thomas the Train, this type of undisciplined writing is all I have.  My second novel will eventually explode from my brain, and I’ll have no control over its movement onto the page.  Then, once again, I’ll find the stolen moments, or times without children, or late nights, so it can find it’s way into the world.

But for now, this is practice, or something close to it.  It is all I can muster.  And it will just have to do.

Filed Under: My life, Writing Tagged With: , , , ,

blog envy

February 27, 2012 By

Let’s talk about blogs.  Some are snarky and edgy.  Some are serious and make you darn happy you don’t have a seeing-eye-dog.  But most are just fun and pretty, with creative names like “farm-girl-flower-power-cookie-pants” that make you want to stop by and visit, like you’re an old friend popping over for tea.  Except with handmade sugar cubes and madelines and hostess gifts wrapped in brown paper and twine.

If you search for half a second, you’ll find some beautiful blogger who lives on a farm and dedicates her life to building joyful memories for her children.  She bakes heart-shaped cinnamon rolls and wheat germ chicken nuggets.  She dreams up craft projects that instill character and creativity in a three-mile radius. She collects odd and beautiful things like wooden spoons or pewter vases or antique hats.   Who in the world collects antique hats?  And in case a picture is worth a thousand words, she captures the process of making buttermilk pancakes with her Nikon, the finished product displayed on a vintage china platter with little turrets of syrup running down like an afterthought.

I hate this perfect person, sipping with glee on chilled raspberry lemonade.  There’s no way I can hold in my stomach or put makeup on or get all my laundry done, much less make paper lanterns.  I tell my children to find something else to do that doesn’t involve screaming or coloring on the floor tiles while I scrub the dried baby food off the chairs or fold bath towels.  Never once do I sit down and make a wreath of dried flowers. Or have a discussion at the dinner table that’s worthy of blogging about.  Our dinner topics usually center around how many bites of a given vegetable are required before an excused exit.

“Eat your asparagus.”

“But I hate asparagus,” my five-year-old moans.

“You don’t hate it.  You might hate things like monsters and evil and rotten fish.  But this is asparagus!  It’s yummy and grilled!  It’s dusted with sea salt!”  She just stares at me like monsters and asparagus are on the same exact level.

So when I’m trying to conquer unrelated piles of old bills and insurance paperwork, mixed with children’s artwork and coupons, I feel like an utter failure.  Why am I not tying a towel around my childrens’ necks and snapping pictures of them jumping off the coach like superheroes?  Why are we not eating frittatas with arugula, or making a may pole?  Those pretty, cooking, farm-loving, crafty bloggers make me feel all inadequate and un-motherly.  And to top it all off, they make me laugh one moment and tear up like a Hallmark commercial the next.  One has a rare blood disorder and adopted three children from Vietnam.  How can I possibly hate that?

It says in Ecclesiastes that all the toil that comes from envying one’s neighbor is pure vanity and is just striving after the wind.  4:4.   So if I dropped what I was doing and made a fabulous batch of cinnamon scones, does that mean it’s all for not?  I think it depends on who I’m trying to impress.  And what recipe I used.

Hate, after all, is reserved for monsters and evil and rotten fish.

Women bloggers are lovely strangers, blessed with wildflowers that bloom every spring, with great recipes for chicken pot pie and peanut butter bars.  They are just mothers, like me, who have moments of brilliance and beauty and joy amidst the unfortunate discovery of shriveled-up hot dogs found under bedcovers.  I am glad they are raising up such strong and spirited children that make the world a better place. They are trying to live simply, and have the guts to write about it. We should all strive to reach that balance, and to plant this world with the same rich heritage seeds.

Thank God for these writers, and discovers, and healthy recipe hunters, who give us ideas and motivation and encouragement.  One rainy Tuesday, when I think of a craft project out of the blue for our two edgy children, I’ll thank them.   Our daughter will beg to watch television and our son would rather eat more applesauce or stick his hands in the dog’s water bowl.  I’ll be the one left sitting at the table gluing shards of paper onto coffee filters, and dinner will consist of scrambled eggs and toast. But still. Thanks all the same.

There’s always tomorrow, when we will have lemon buttermilk pancakes with sugared walnuts.   Too bad my camera battery’s dead and no one will ever know.

Filed Under: Humor, Motherhood, Religion, Writing Tagged With: , , ,