Why I Began Writing Again-In Earnest
On August 5, 2009 my mommy group hosted author Janna Cawrse Esarey who talked to us about her memoir "The Motion of the Ocean".
I knew Janna from a short lived local writing group for mothers. I had only met her a few times but was impressed with her.
She was pregnant at the same time I was, yet she was revising and already marketing her book. I was amazed. I wanted to be like that, it seemed there was no excuse I had that she hadn't blown right past. Kids-Daycare. Nursing-Type one handed.
I was so jealous. I loved her book, the humor, the stories, the way she kept our attention through the entire book. My group of mommies were all very impressed as well. One of my friends stayed late and we talked about writing for some time after everyone else had gone home. I was excited again, it seemed there was someone ahead of me to prove that it was possible.
We left for vacation the next morning. I had recently heard a news piece about something wacky and outrageous enough to merit some mulling over. Somewhere along the way, I bought a spiral notebook and began jotting down possible plots, character development, points of view, etc. My husband would glance over every so often but looked afraid to ask what I was up to.
During our trip I fantasized at all of our stops about the life I could lead in each marvelous coastal town. On my hikes or morning runs I really let my mind wander, either planning my alternate life-the life I full well understood I was not going to have unless I started writing again, and letting the story really rip through my imagination.
I began to feel a sadness and longing that I have grown used to but now my thoughts were venturing in strange places.
What if I just ran away? How long would it take me to miss my family? How long would the work sustain me? (I know the answer to this one. I tried this before, and came screaming back to civilization before I even paid rent on my would be writer's cabin, and this was BEFORE the family. The truth is, I can go wherever I want, and limit all distractions, but if I don't actually sit my butt down in the chair like I am doing right now, the feeling of longing doesn't go away. I can't find fulfillment, no matter how many projects I plan if don't follow through and get the work done.)
For a while I resigned myself to imagining what it would be like if I were retired and finally able to settle in to a routine.
-Really? That's like what...thirty years from now! What if something happens to me in the meantime? Then you probably weren't meant to be a writer, I reasoned.
I pictured my family all dying in some sort of horrible accident. Then I would be all alone. I don't know if I would make it though the shock and grief, but if I did, then what?
-I could stay up all night and work if I wanted. If my brain picked up on an idea, I could run with it, sketching plots, then immediately putting it down, saving it and beginning my research. I would be free to do it however, whenever, wherever, and whatever time I wanted.
(Has anyone seen The Shining, where Jack Nicolson descends in to madness at the same time he gets all the time in the world to write?)
The scary thing is the thought of really working on my stories, following where my head wanted to take me without any interruptions or need to re prioritize anything made me giddy.
Maybe it was the endorphins from the run.
Whatever it was, I spent the next few weeks wondering what it was that was really stopping me from getting started. My baby was growing, I had given her plenty of time, and I felt more centered.
So one day a month ago I said to my husband: "I want to pay for some day care so I can start putting real hours in to my writing."
A discussion ensued, and arguments were made, but Daddy has volunteered to take kids three nights a week. I will write more on this subject in and of itself, but suffice it to say that our marriage has improved...a lot.
The cage has been lifted, mostly. I still have to prioritize and balance, some days I really, really want to surf the internet instead of dig in to a part of the novel I don't feel so moved by that day. Now I feel like I am writing in tandem with everything else I have going on and am only running on half my brain, BUT I haven't felt this full, this excited about my life since I escaped, for the fourth time (If at first you don't succeed...) from a nightmare called Straight twenty years ago and found that I was still alive.
I knew Janna from a short lived local writing group for mothers. I had only met her a few times but was impressed with her.
She was pregnant at the same time I was, yet she was revising and already marketing her book. I was amazed. I wanted to be like that, it seemed there was no excuse I had that she hadn't blown right past. Kids-Daycare. Nursing-Type one handed.
I was so jealous. I loved her book, the humor, the stories, the way she kept our attention through the entire book. My group of mommies were all very impressed as well. One of my friends stayed late and we talked about writing for some time after everyone else had gone home. I was excited again, it seemed there was someone ahead of me to prove that it was possible.
We left for vacation the next morning. I had recently heard a news piece about something wacky and outrageous enough to merit some mulling over. Somewhere along the way, I bought a spiral notebook and began jotting down possible plots, character development, points of view, etc. My husband would glance over every so often but looked afraid to ask what I was up to.
During our trip I fantasized at all of our stops about the life I could lead in each marvelous coastal town. On my hikes or morning runs I really let my mind wander, either planning my alternate life-the life I full well understood I was not going to have unless I started writing again, and letting the story really rip through my imagination.
I began to feel a sadness and longing that I have grown used to but now my thoughts were venturing in strange places.
What if I just ran away? How long would it take me to miss my family? How long would the work sustain me? (I know the answer to this one. I tried this before, and came screaming back to civilization before I even paid rent on my would be writer's cabin, and this was BEFORE the family. The truth is, I can go wherever I want, and limit all distractions, but if I don't actually sit my butt down in the chair like I am doing right now, the feeling of longing doesn't go away. I can't find fulfillment, no matter how many projects I plan if don't follow through and get the work done.)
For a while I resigned myself to imagining what it would be like if I were retired and finally able to settle in to a routine.
-Really? That's like what...thirty years from now! What if something happens to me in the meantime? Then you probably weren't meant to be a writer, I reasoned.
I pictured my family all dying in some sort of horrible accident. Then I would be all alone. I don't know if I would make it though the shock and grief, but if I did, then what?
-I could stay up all night and work if I wanted. If my brain picked up on an idea, I could run with it, sketching plots, then immediately putting it down, saving it and beginning my research. I would be free to do it however, whenever, wherever, and whatever time I wanted.
(Has anyone seen The Shining, where Jack Nicolson descends in to madness at the same time he gets all the time in the world to write?)
The scary thing is the thought of really working on my stories, following where my head wanted to take me without any interruptions or need to re prioritize anything made me giddy.
Maybe it was the endorphins from the run.
Whatever it was, I spent the next few weeks wondering what it was that was really stopping me from getting started. My baby was growing, I had given her plenty of time, and I felt more centered.
So one day a month ago I said to my husband: "I want to pay for some day care so I can start putting real hours in to my writing."
A discussion ensued, and arguments were made, but Daddy has volunteered to take kids three nights a week. I will write more on this subject in and of itself, but suffice it to say that our marriage has improved...a lot.
The cage has been lifted, mostly. I still have to prioritize and balance, some days I really, really want to surf the internet instead of dig in to a part of the novel I don't feel so moved by that day. Now I feel like I am writing in tandem with everything else I have going on and am only running on half my brain, BUT I haven't felt this full, this excited about my life since I escaped, for the fourth time (If at first you don't succeed...) from a nightmare called Straight twenty years ago and found that I was still alive.
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