I am always trying to capitalize on these moments of silence. I am not in that time and place in which the ideas come in the shower and then linger all day waiting for me to put them down.  Instead, I am trying to force the creativity to come in these patchwork moments that I try to collect.  Try to sew together.

Sadly, I’ll start a poem or a post or a piece of prose only to be interrupted and then to lose my momentum.   So, let’s get through this quickly, shall we.  (Should that have been a question mark?)

I started writing a post about pissing my pants on the streets of Italy.  It might have been a good post.  I don’t know.  But, it seemed so mundane.   Really.

Here I am again.  This same frozen feeling grabbing at my heart.  I started writing about me writing about the pissing of my pants and as soon as I felt a sense of direction this ugly halting feeling seized the ideas right from my brain.  And, now, again, I’m thinking “I have this insane case of writer’s block!  I could write about that!” and my fingers freeze on the keys.  I am silenced again.

What gives?

Outside of writing, I am experiencing much of the same issues.  I come home and am exhausted beyond belief.  I am living a life lately sans motivation.

I don’t think I’m depressed.

I don’t know what it is.

But, you probably don’t want to here about it either.  So, here’s my plan:

I am going to get up out of this seat.  I am going to put on some music.  I am going to sing along and clean my house and get everything all pretty and organized.

Then, if the space presents itself, I’m going to try this again.

I could write about pee pants, or summer, or Silas, or my recent experience jumping off meds and having to get back on, or the tea party that I’m attending this afternoon, or not being able to afford to have another baby (at least right away) and looking at life with a single child, or potty training, or preschool, or, or, or…

Anyhow, until then.  Thanks for the support.

It feels really, really good.

Except when you have nothing to say.

I believe that my last post is only two days old now.  Only two days that I haven’t written on this site.  Only two days that I haven’t written anything.

And, already, I’m depressed.

It’s not as if ideas haven’t been floating about in my head.  They have.  I just haven’t had enough inspiration to organize those ideas, to turn them into words, to roll them out and form them into coherent bits and pieces fit enough to share.

This loss, this lack of inspiration, turns everything just a little bit gray.

It’s like losing a lover.

And then I have to wonder, isn’t that narcissistic?  To always have to have something to say?

My husband is a musician and I would guess, by his long faces and mindless television watching, that when he is not playing music he feels the same way.  He’s just surviving.

I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, but it’s true.

I’m my best when I’m creating… something.  Anything.

That’s why I’m writing about not being able to write.  Because, if I didn’t write anything, I’d be feeling even worse.  I’d be staring at the walls right now, head in my hands, unable to come up with something to do.  In fact I’m doing that anyway, in between sentences, taking deep breaths to feel more alive.

I’ve been like that since I was a little girl.

Now, I could go on and on about how I need to write, about how I’m all the tortured artist.  But, instead, I’m going to put my mining hat on and I’m going to explore.  Explore why it is that I haven’t been able to write anything for the last few days.  Why a week or two ago I had to write a post about my excessive anxiety– anxiety that was surrounding my contest entry.

You can accept that I’m not at my writing best (what with the mining reference and all) and come with.  Or, you can quit while your ahead, close this window, and go on to bigger and better things.  Your choice.

(Pause on your end.  Slight deliberation.)

Thank you for staying with me.

So, why this sudden halting silence?

It’s easy.  It’s pressure.

You see, some time ago, I joined an online group called the Mom Bloggers Club.  I had seen it advertised on the back of a copy of Brain, Child and I thought it might be a good way to get ideas, gain a greater readership, see what else was out in cyberspace aside from little ole me.

I found it overwhelming.  I created a page and then I didn’t go back.

Until two days ago.

See the parallel.  Wow, you’re quick.  (And I am sounding awfully insulting.)

Two days ago, I got back on the site for much the same reason that I initially joined.  Only this time around, I joined some groups and posted some comments and asked someone to, dum-dum-dum, be my friend.

And it worked.  Sort-of.  A few new people read my blog.  They seemed to like it.   And that was that.

Then, came the silence.

I suppose this is a time to be honest.  I’ll admit, I entertain delusions of grandeur.  I think I’m special.  I believe that some day, I’ll write something profound.  That I will dust the dirt of this little town off my heels and be someone.  (Actually, I’d like to stay in this little town.  But, I still want to be someone…)

And, what does that even mean?  To be “someone”?  Fame and fortune?  What?

So, basically, when I realized that I was trying to put myself out there, out there among the 5,500+ women who belong to the Mom Bloggers site alone, I think I sort-of freaked out.  Got stage fright.  Ducked my little head back into my little shell.

The editing hand took over and squeezed the living shit out of my writing hand.

If people are going to actually read what I write, then I don’t want to write anything lame.  I want to be fantabulous all the time and every day.  I want to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I. have. talent.

Deep breath.

I feel better already.

I’ve been writing on this site for almost two years now and I think it’s about time to face the fire, woman up and brave the heat, see if I got what it takes.

And realize, again, that I don’t have to be perfect.

And, maybe, that I’m already someone.

My husband is always telling me to write for the trash, to just let go, to not expect the inspiration to come everyday.

Like he’s a writing coach or a damn Yoda or something.

But, he believes in me and expects me to believe in myself.  And, I guess that’s all that matters.

My belief in myself and the trash can that I’m writing for.

(I’m not referring to you as trash, I’m just pretending that you’re not there.)

So now, I’ve said it.  I’m afraid.

And, I’m not staring at the wall trying to find something to feel alive about.

Thanks for listening.

It’s killing me.

I’m writing it into a deep, ugly hole.

So, I put it away.

Granted, I have taken some breaks today.  I took a lovely little walk.  I ate din-din with my family.  I finished a book.  I lifted weights (not too many and not too long, but still I lifted them).  I had a doctor’s appointment.  I watched two episodes from the second season of Lost.  And now I’m boring you.  I’m boring myself.  I am fried-ola.

Anyhow, this is why I struggle with writing fiction.  It’s a beast.  It could always be better and better and better.

I don’t think this is what I want to write about anymore.

I’d like to write about my doctor’s visit.  But, you know what.  I can’t.  I have to get away from this computer.

Away… away… away……………………………………………..

Oddly, I’m a wreck.

Okay, a wreck is stretching it.  I am nervous.  So nervous, in fact, that my stomach is churning.  My head hurts.  My fingers feel numb.

Pause.  Sorry.  Fast forward in time.  It is an hour, a pill, and a beer later (I was interrupted) and I am calm, confident, and full of ideas.

Still, I fear that when I resume writing the story that I hope will win, or at least place, that this stomach wrenching, palm sweating, diarrhea provoking monster will creep up and attack me again.  And even more frightful, I am scared that I might like it.  This devilish, adrenaline-abusing muse.

I tried to explain this phenomenon to another writer friend and she laughed.  “Isn’t writing supposed to be fun,” she chimed.  “But, what about the tortured poet,” I asked.  “The struggling artist-type.”  She remained silent and I took this silence to be a concession.  She recognized my genius.  I pointed this out.  She laughed again.

We’ll show her.

So, this story.  It is one of those not-so-fictional fictional stories based on some of the experiences that I’ve expounded upon on this blog.  Namely, my brush with postpartum psychosis.  I am looking back at some of my earlier posts to remember what I felt and then creating my characters/plot/prose around that experience.  I am hoping that as I write, the story will metamorphose into something more and more fantastical (or at least truly fictional) and something less like a memoir.

Either way, I’m willing to share the first skeletal bits of this up and coming masterpiece because I only have a few shoddy paragraphs.  That’s right.  I’m freaking out over just a few shoddy paragraphs.  That’s not exactly true.  I’ve started the started the story three different times.  So, I actually have three sets of a few shoddy paragraphs.  But don’t they always say that getting started is the hardest?  We’ll here, I’ll let you see…

The Most Completed Set of a Few Paragraphs of the Story that I Hope Will Win a Prize

It was six weeks since the last rain and the garden was holding on by a thread.  Still, I continued to water despite the water restrictions, despite the potential $400 fine or the neighbors’ dirty looks.  And, I also continued to turn new earth, rubbing open old blisters and sowing seeds too late for planting.  The garden had become both my obsession and my lifeline.  It had become my only source of peace.

But, as goal driven as I was outside, I was equally indolent inside.  The house, which, when I could manage a smile, I jokingly referred to as Amityville, was filled with piles of laundry, of old magazines and scattered paperbacks, of plates, and spoons, and sippy cups that needed washing.  I would more often than not find myself staring aimlessly at the mess too overwhelmed, too limp to attack it.  And the more I stood, the more I stared, the more the laundry, the papers, the dishes began to represent my personal failures.

That’s exactly when I would step back outside.

It had, even with the solace of the garden, become impossible to ignore my anxieties, my inability to cope with “normal” life. I could no longer hide the bouts of panic that left me unable to feel my arms, my legs.  Or the fact that the making of a grocery list left me in a life-or-death-like struggle with indecisiveness.

And, even more dangerous, I could no longer deny that I had seen a child behind our clothes dryer.

A child that did not exist.

That’s the reason, while sunk among the surviving beans and tomato plants, I talked myself into taking the pills.

Here’s where my shoddy paragraphs end.  I can’t figure out how to change the font in this program, so I am making this announcement.

Any comments will, most likely, be appreciated.

So, onto reading trash!

I just finished Charlaine Harris’s New York Times Best Selling trash novel Dead Until Dark.   (Sorry Heather for this unflattering review.  For those of you who would like to try the series, I have been told that the second novel far surpasses the first in both style and quality.  I also did not like The Other Boleyn Girl which I also referred to as trash.  But, now that I’ve read Dead Until Dark, I must admit that The Other Boleyn Girl isn’t quite trash.  At least of the Harris caliber.)

So, yeah, I just finished it.  And, I admit I gulped it up in a short couple of days.   Still, and I’m going to give something away but I don’t think it will ruin the book for you, my opinion was solidified when Elvis returned from the dead as a mentally retarded vampire.  Yes, I am not making that up.  That’s what happened.  And, the main character, who is supposed to be fairly attractive, still wears banana clips and scrunchies.  I have short hair, so maybe I’m out of the loop.  But, I thought banana clips and scrunchies went out a long time ago.  But, since there is so mcuh focus on the main character being Lousiana blue collar maybe I’m the one who is out of fashion sense.  (And yes, I’m being offensive and nit-picky.)

Okay, so I might read the second book.  So what?

I’m definitely going to watch the True Blood series (based on the book).   And, yes, since Twilight, which some readers refer to as trash, I am looking for another romantic vampire series to quench my thirst.

Does that make me lame?

]]> http://booknboob.com/blog/2009/07/17/on-writing-anxiety-and-reading-trash/feed/ 2 http://booknboob.com/blog/2009/01/10/little-life-altering-epiphany/ http://booknboob.com/blog/2009/01/10/little-life-altering-epiphany/#comments Sat, 10 Jan 2009 05:35:04 +0000 Administrator http://booknboob.com/blog/2009/01/10/little-life-altering-epiphany/ So, while I flounder around starting posts and stopping them mid-sentence so that I can edit, edit, edit my content, so that I can double-check to make sure that I am saying what I am meaning to say, so that I can verify that I am writing something worthy of this brand of instant “publication”, I am, by all stretches of the creative imagination, not writing at all.  (In fact, I just started to delete this sentence and then stopped myself and forced myself to write it before I could read back to the beginning and delete the whole damn thing.  Where are thou, my self-confidence???)

So, I have, just recently, in the last few days in fact, experienced a little, life-altering epiphany.   And, yes, like most life-altering epiphanies–or at least like most of my life-altering epiphanies, because I have had so very many, you know– the burst of mind-numbing enlightenment was completely obvious.  Beyond obvious.  Let me fill you in…

While perched on the toilet– I admit that I often feign constipation in order to fulfill my literary yearnings– I revisited the introduction to Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott.  In her opening paragraph, she discusses a childhood filled with books and with people actually reading them.  She talks about a writer father who sprawled across the couch every evening after dinner to read, read, read.  She writes about how the whole family would retire to their favorite reading spot and about how, on occasion, their house was also filled with, perhaps better than books, her father’s writer friends, who would, to Lamott’s dismay, occasionally pass out at the dinner table.Ah!  How I wished, with all my stupid heart’s desire, that I could be living that life.

Living that life?!?  You’d think I was envious of someone who built a 4-acre palace on the back-side of a cumulus cloud.  I mean, golly, turning my back deck into the Playboy Mansion may be a little beyond my reach, but living in a house in which people stretched out after a good meal to enjoy a good book?!?

Yeah.  I’ve been spending my time desperately yearning for the easily possible.

Unfortunately, it seems, that wild pointless yearning of mine confirms one of the following: a.) I’m ungratefully spoiled and nothing is ever good enough for me b.) I am a masochist who likes to dangle the near-possible in front of myself while happily throwing ugly curve balls– such as a child who has been sick for almost four months and a sink that is full of crusty, unwashed dishes– at my undeserving head OR c.) I am plagued by a bout of life-threatening perfectionism that forces me to focus my undivided attention on all the wrong things.

Okay.  It’s A, B & C.  I’m an ungrateful, spoiled perfectionist masochist with a son who has been sick for 4 months (and who consequently is about to undergo surgery for a hernia AND a branchial cleft cyst), a sink full of almost-crusty dishes, and an inability to just damn RELAX!!!

So, if my idea of a perfect life includes lying on the couch reading and writing and having over artist friends, I have that so in the bag.  All I have to do is Just Do It!  (I really didn’t mean to use that Nike catch phrase.   But, now that I have, I finally, uh, get it.)

Instead of constantly berating myself because the bathroom floor has dirty sneaker prints on it,  I am now thinking that, within reason, I should just throw my Suzy Homemaker tendencies to the wind.

I was never intended to be a homemaker.  (At least not the kind that dabbles in Jell-O Mold.)

Wait!  That’s not fair.  Maybe I was.  Just a wee bit.  I mean, I do genuinely love organizing my closets with baskets.  I feel great when I’ve both dusted and made a Pot Roast.  And, I did– just this year– host a holiday wine-tasting in which the cloth napkins were rolled ever-so-neatly in little silver reindeer napkin rings and in which fresh Holly adorned our mantel.

Still.  I was never intended to spend so much time stressing about my domestic duties that I lose all sight of the truly important.

And, I don’t just mean reading books.

I mean, of course, my family.

In what sick self-created world of mine did dish-washing and laundry-folding become more important than drum-beating and boogie-dancing with my 15-month-old.  Or, more important than sipping a nicely chilled Manhattan and having a down-home discussion with my husband.  Or, even, more important than just checking in with myself about how the hell I’m feeling.

I can vow and resolve and promise and dream until I’m– well– dead.  And then, I guess, I’d just die dreaming.  If having a happy home filled with books and creativity and love is my goal, well,  I should consider myself one lucky woman.  Because, no matter how I slice it,  I already have everything I need.  All I need to do is just enjoy!

Sounds simple.

To enjoying my home, my hubby, my son, my books, my couch, my mind, my new quill pen, and my lap top, I toast (literally, I’m toasting as I type) to a new beautiful year!

May you also have little life-altering epiphanies and may we both have the courage to learn from them.

A silent 34 days.

Enough time to lose one’s precious readership…

Sadly, I stopped posting just moments after declaring that I was ready to my to “take my blog to the next level.”

Some level.

Do I smell a bout of self-defeatism?  Or, just a mere pause?  A pathetic vomitous irony? Or a long, breathless moment designed to gather my thoughts?

(A big thanks to Tata who not only took my declaration seriously but offered up her advice.  I am sorry, sorry, sorry to disappoint.  But, am still grateful, grateful, grateful for the advice.)

I wish I could commit to end the ceasefire and just blast away– one heated post after the next.

But, truth be told, I’m tired.

I could rant on and on about why I’ve been tired.  Author a novella about a sick and increasingly obstinate 14-month-old (who blatantly refuses to walk!!!).  Concoct a cast of characters that include a TV-obsessed husband, a room full of pre-adolescent psychos, and a Jehovah woman that just won’t leave well enough alone.

But, I’m past all that.  Of course I am.  And one day, I’m going to be a real writer.

Until then– until that day when I see my beautiful, untainted name (meaning that I never altered my maiden name, not that I don’t have any smudges on my record) in bold, black, professional print– I know that somehow, in some way, I need to press on.

And, I plan on starting here.   At Book n’ Boob.  The web site that I never carried past first base.  One of my many hopeful bunts tapped right into the willing hands of the fearless catcher that I call life.

(Okay so I’m a big pathetic cheeseball.  So what?!?)

However, before I sign my name to this desperate, hasty love letter, I’d like to note that I have not just abandoned this blog.  I have lost almost complete contact with some of my dearest friends.  (Heather?  Jason?  Are you out there?)  I have spent nights sleeping on the day bed and have spent days in a fog of insane house cleaning.  I have had to face the ugly fact that I just muddled through another unattractive, bipolar cycle and am trying to convince myself that I am the better for it.  While many things have been sweet, so many other things have been sour.  I am not trying to complain as much as I am trying to convince myself that– hello!– I still have some emotional reckoning to do.

In the meantime, I am happy to be back for tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. Who knows?  Could be from this day forward, through sickness and health, richer or poorer, til death do us part.

I would also like to say that I sincerely hope that you, dear reader, had a bountiful, delicious, and indulgent Thanksgiving holiday and are looking forward to the chestnut-roasted, tinsel-topped, carol-laden gift-giving gluttony of Christmas (or Hannukah or Kwanzaa or Winter Solstice or Absolutely Nothing– whatever you choose to prefer).  I know that I did and I am.  (I will openly admit that I am a complete SUCKER for the winter holidays.)

I honestly hope that I will be writing here tomorrow and that my apology has been accepted.  I am going to excuse myself now to work on a short story that has been plaguing much of my mental white space–  poking a finger in my side while I drive, mimicking me while I try to sleep, and doing all the other annoying kid sister things that it can think of. So, before I squeeze this story’s cheeks together so that it has no choice but to stick it’s ugly pink tongue out at me, I better go.

Until tomorrow or the next day or the day after that,

Lots of love and luck.
–Me

I must admit, dear note-leaving souls, that your recognition of my most recent post has me floating on cloud nine.

Hello, Cloud Nine, it’s nice to see you again.

What? You’d like me to kick off my shoes and stay awhile? Don’t mind if I do.

Yes, I’d like to sunbathe here on cloud nine awhile. With you praise-givers around, it should be easy, right? Already this morning, you have prompted me to stop sweeping and start writing. Thank you. I only hope the momentum will last.

Still, I’m sure you’ve notice that my last three posts have all centered around my lack of inspiration, motivation, creative spirit. Needless to say, this shift is disconcerting and depressing. I’ve been busy, yes. But when have I not been busy? I will discuss the issue with my doc this afternoon, but I truly fear that the pharmaceutical leveling of my emotional dips and spikes is leaving me desperate and lacking.

Let me explain how it is that I operate:

Generally, I am in constant motion. With the rare exception of Savasana (corpse pose) after a vigorous session of yoga, either my body or my mind or both are continually racing. Sometimes, if my body or mind are really working it, then one or the other might take a little catnap. For instance, if I am truly dancing, dancing with my soul exposed, then I am able to escape my thoughts for awhile. If I am possessed by a vivid and fantastical day dream, I may find myself slumped over, staring trance-like at the living room blinds. (I am certain you have experienced the same.)

Usually, however, both my mind and my body are working in conjunction to get me to move, move, move and seldom sit idle. I am, right now for instance, typing at breakneck speed (well, not typing exactly: I hunt and peck with a wild woman’s fervor) whilst rapidly peddling my left leg, up and down, up and down, as if I my thoughts were somehow connected to an invisible peddle like that of an ancient sewing machine or a beautiful upright piano. I keep biting my lips and my heart is busily palpitating. I have electrical currents running up and down my spine.
Oh how I revel in these jittery, caffeinated, inspirational states.

After having Silas, I suppose I began climbing a steep, but slippery slope, in which I was practically in rapture, tongues of creative fire pouring down on me in torrential buckets. A small flicker of an idea would begin to smolder in my mind and then an inspirational breeze would come along and POOF! I’d be on fire. My skin tingling, my thoughts moving at Olympic speed, my breathing quick and wild. If Silas was napping, I would pound out my literary compositions with flare and gusto. If Silas was awake, I would strap him to my chest and sing and laugh and frantically tidy and talk my ideas aloud so that they wouldn’t fly away.It was perfect.

Except for the fact that I couldn’t feel my teeth.

Or sometimes my thighs.

I couldn’t organize my days.

Once darkness came, I had to obsessively create lists of things that I had accomplished so that I could convince myself that I was actually accomplishing something. If I didn’t feel like I had accomplished enough (writing two papers for my Master’s course, hiking three miles, writing two poems, washing the dishes, vacuuming, planting onions in the garden, and tutoring foster children from 6:00-9:30pm, all while tending to my newborn son never quite seemed like enough!) I would write lists of what I absolutely had to accomplish tomorrow and why I didn’t get enough done that day.

You see, I would be blanketed in creative fire and then I would just plain burn. Often turning to a pile of ashy mush crying on the bedroom floor.
Of course, I could not continue to live this way.

Still, I miss those fanatical days. The creativity was largely motivated by the insanity and perhaps the insanity by the creativity. Now, I am trying to find my medicated sea legs. It’s not so easy.

Yes, my priorities are clearer. My personal expectations have been whittled down to “reasonable” and I am not so damn hard on myself (or my husband). I would say that I am happier. And, thankfully, I can feel all of my body parts the majority of the time.

But, I am not as often swept up on a wave of passionate inspiration.

I am fearfully mediocre. (There’s that obsessiveness again.)

But, I was able to fly on an airplane with my son without nervously picking the skin from knuckles.

How do I strike a balance?

I will take any well-intentioned suggestions.

Thank you.

(Eckhart Tolle would be so disappointed with my attitude. No, that is a lie. Tolle wouldn’t blink an eye at my attitude because he would recognize my drive to create as a symptom of my ego and instead of concentrating on my obsessiveness he would just be “being”. How truly, syrupy, sweet.)

So, I’m trying to be proactive. I am taking a step to counteract this regressive process. I am going to write about all of the things that I have intended to write about, but haven’t. I am hoping that this will kick me into gear. (Please, oh please, divine spirit, grant me the gift of creativity so I may continue on my merry literary way…)

Things I have been meaning to write about in no particular order:

(Note to committed reader: I may still write about these things. If I pique your interest, stay tuned. If I fail to pique your interest, well, honestly, go F*%$ yourself.)

(I’m sorry about that explosive bit of aggression. It was a product of my unconscious ego.)

(I’m sorry for saying that bit about the unconscious ego. I’m not making fun of Eckhart Tolle even if I seem like I might be making fun of him. If I’ve offended you, I hope you still like me.)

(I am taking back that bit about you liking me. It doesn’t matter whether or not you like me. The beauty of my essence has little to do with your opinion of me. I am thoroughly unattached to your opinions. A fellow blogger, Tata, seems to have begun to master this concept in creating her Beautiful Like Me blog. You can check her out at http://www.imnotbeautifullikeyou.com Love her. She has been very kind to me. )

(I never intended my entire post to be published in bold letters. But, this Godforsaken program won’t let me unbold what I never actually bolded myself even though I know HTML and tried to use it to my advantage.)

Now, back to…

Things I have been meaning to write about in no particular order:

I’ve been wanting to write about the time that my son was shrieking like a mentally disturbed banshee-man in his crib. He wouldn’t sleep. He wouldn’t sleep. Then I remembered that his beloved blankie was hidden in his hamper because it smelled like sour milk and piss. When I couldn’t take the screaming anymore, I army crawled through his room, uncovered the missing blankie, despite its apparent toxicity, and made a blind blankie toss into his crib so he wouldn’t see me and then crawled back out again. Shortly thereafter he fell asleep. I wanted to discuss all the ridiculous things we do as parents in order to appease our youngins. I planned to entitle the post “Operation Blankie” but I never got around to it.

I’ve wanted to write about sleep. I’ve wanted to write about how I scoffed at all the people who told me to sleep while the baby slept and how I would never see sleep the same way again, how I would crave sleep like I crave a good piece of dark chocolate. I intended to share with you all my early experiences with night time feeding. How I cherished those quiet, blissful hours. How I only cherished them because I believed, truly believed, with all of my naive heart, that Silas would be sleeping through the night by four months. Ha, ha. Triple, ha-ha-ha.

I’ve also wanted to write about neonatal ideals. About parenting books and magazines and clubs and email groups. About how they can be almost as shitty and devastating as the “How to Make Him Like You” and “Ten Beauty Secrets of the Top Teen Models” articles in Teen Magazine when you are trying desperately and without success to be an attractive and popular fourteen year old. About how parenting in theory is nothing like parenting in real life. And about how I have found myself shopping at Sam’s Club, weaning before one year, using a pacifier, accepting an epidural, administering Mylicon, and Tylenol, and Baby Motrin and finally antibiotics when Silas was hopelessly, frightfully sick and we were scared and felt we had no other recourse. And, about how that doesn’t make me a bad mother… even when I give Silas 100% watered down pear juice that is from friggin’ concentrate and isn’t flippin’ organic!

I also wanted to write about how damned political parenting has become. How it feeds our already inflated need to be perfect and is terribly, obsessively self-absorbed.

Oh wait! Back to sleep and speaking of dreams of perfection. I’ve wanted to write about why I never did sleep when the baby slept. It was simply because I was acting psycho and trying to prove that I was some sort-of superhuman entity even though I am not. I’m just a regular human person with an insatiable drive toward over achievement. The over achievement does not make me happy and often leaves me craving more. So, I’ve wanted to let you know that my restlessness was either a product of my blatant bipolarism or an expression of the collective flaw of the human condition. Or, both. (Probably both.)

I’ve also wanted to write about my fears about placing Silas in day care. About my search for day care centers and about the creepy, ucky, disturbing visions I had after visiting several home day cares. I especially wanted to write about how the caretakers in Silas’s new “facility” probably won’t refer to Silas as “waking up boy” when they get him from his nap, probably won’t sing and dance to the new Medeski, Martin, and Wood kid’s CD, and how they definitely won’t be taking Silas for romps in the woods. I’ve wanted to write about how I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle eight hours away from him.

In addition, I’ve wanted to write about Silas’s invented games, about my new obsession with jogging, about the social studies Praxis (teacher licensing) test that I studied and studied and studied for and probably failed, about the time we rushed Silas to the emergency room and how his being ill reminded me of my sister, Eliza, who died of leukemia when she was two years old and about how, even eighteen years after her death, I am still irreparably wounded, and about my friend Melisa who is always reading my blog and reading it aloud to others and doing her damned best to support me (to the extent that she can write no poem except those in which I am her primary subject) and is also raising two wonderful children, and about my parents, and my in-laws, and my fears, and my books, and my fear of flying.

Or even just about how I drink too much wine. (It’s true. I do.)

Oh yes, I have wanted to write.

And thank God, I just did.

(Pat on back.)And, good night.

Why? Because the damn Internet failed just as I was finishing my original essay and all my work was erased. As I stomped and swore and threatened the cat, my husband calmly reminded me of his repeated suggestion that I write my posts in Word and then copy and paste them onto my site.

Yeah. Great idea. But, his logistical smugness only pushed me deeper into a pit of unhealthy rage. (Of which I have since recovered.) Realize that this post is only a facsimile of its true self. It is a compilation of little bits of initial thought that were able to be salvaged from the wreck of my memory. Unfortunately, attempts at recapturing ideas from ghost drafts are more than often futile. I am sorry, so sorry then, if I fail to amuse you.

(Speaking of the true self, has anyone checked out Eckhart Tolle? Out of nowhere [okay, maybe it had a little something to do with his stint on Oprah] it seems that Tolle’s work and my life keep colliding. So, I finally started listening to A New Earth. Man, is Tolle some deep, deep stuff. And, for better or worse, I am totally digging it.)

Now, on to my reconstructed post:

You may have noticed, as of late, that my Muse has gone packing. I must admit, that I am little sour about it. Especially, since I’m guessing that that slut is probably in Las Vegas throwing her money away on the nickel slot machines. Or, off trying her evil hand at Black Jack in Atlantic City.

Honestly, I’m a little concerned about her health and reputation.

Still, I can forgive her this one extravagant holiday as I have possibly been too busy to consult with her anyhow. (If you see her, please don’t tell her I said that. Politely compliment her on her outfit and hair cut and then try to persuade her to come home.)

Still, I am not too fretful. Muse’s earned vacation time is almost spent and I’m confident that I’ll be back in the saddle by Monday. (I am not yet blaming her absence on my medication. Not yet. No, we certainly won’t go there.)

In the meantime, before I embarrass myself running half-naked down the street screaming “Muse! Muse! Come back! Come Baaaack!” in the same irritating voice that the stranded, mashed-potato-eating little brother uses in A Christmas Story, I am compelled to offer up a suggestion to all of those couples struggling to redefine their postpartum relationship:

Get away for 24 hours without the baby and be ridiculously irresponsible.

No, I don’t mean go out on a 24 hour bender spending the last of your savings on a half shipment of cocaine. No, no. I just mean get out and live a little. We did and Man! are we better for it.

Yes, thanks to my incredible, intelligent and good-looking parents (I hope you’re reading because I’m buttering you up for another overnight), Paul and I were set free. Freeeeeeeeee!

These wonderful, incomparable, as-close-to-perfection-as-two-people-can-get-without actually-being-the-Messiah parents made a pit stop on their vacation to entertain our lovely, lovely loud, crawling, climbing, squealing, energetic, creative, potty-mouthed, temperamental 9-month-old son for an entire 1,465 minutes (no I wasn’t counting) while Paul and I stumbled down vaguely familiar Charlestonian streets in a happily intoxicated tizzy.

Ah! The old life. It’s still there just waiting in the shadows. Go ahead. Invite him over. He’s feeling awfully lonely standing under the lamppost all by himself, planning deliciously debaucherous schemes, that will most likely never come to fruition. Leave him alone too long and he’ll go sniffing after that wild Muse of mine. And when that happens, they may never come back.

Don’t let Mr. Stale come for dinner and ruin your life.

Just because you are a mother doesn’t mean that your inner wild child has shriveled up and kicked the bucket.

Oh no. You are just as wild and crazy as ever. Maybe even more so…

So, do as I do and not as I say especially when going over our monthly bills or trying to get Silas to take a nap or folding an ugly, ugly forsaken pile of laundry.

Go off with your hubbie. Stretch your meek finances to the limit buying items (so, we needed some duds for dinner!) and gourmet entrees (did I mention the foie gras?!?) and bottle of champagne that really POPS! when you send the cork flying across the dimly lit parking lot. Go off. Get wild. Take 24 hours and call me in the morning.

Trust me. Just do it!

We did.

(No pun intended.)

]]> http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/07/20/may-i-suggest/feed/ 2 http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/06/04/a-room-of-ones-own/ http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/06/04/a-room-of-ones-own/#comments Thu, 05 Jun 2008 02:21:20 +0000 Administrator http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/06/04/a-room-of-ones-own/ It is two minutes until 10pm– the bedtime prescribed by my psychiatrist, my therapist, my sister, and my husband. Apparently, sleep is a miracle medicine all its own. I am trying to indulge in it. But, the ideas! The ideas keep coming and sleep just seems to get in the way.

I am out on the back deck. It is long past sun down. The bull frogs and numerous insects that I am not savvy enough to name have appeared, in their full choral majesty, to claim the darkness that is theirs to illuminate.

I am on the back deck with my lap top, two candles, and a pile of scratchings that are meant to be the skeletons of stories. My own attempts at illumination.

I recently watched the film adaptation of the The Hours by Michael Cunningham and am, of course, reminded of Virginia Woolf. (Odd that I should have just mentioned Virginia Woolf and then The Hours and now this…)

I have been thinking about having a room of one’s own, of forging the mental and physical space to write, to create. I have a room, an actual room in our house, that is meant to be my writing room. We actually call it the reading room, because it is stacked with books and has a lovely chaise lounge-like day bed and original artwork (aren’t we classy!). But it is meant to be a space for my writing as well.

Yet, the beautiful room has become that room in which you throw everything that has no place. That room that you keep closed when you have company so as to maintain the mirage of organization that you manage to survive by. My “room” is an utter disaster and is anything but inspirational. I have been working at the kitchen table– and only if the dishes are done and the counters are clean. No wonder I have been going mad.

But, there is a bright side to this sad story.

Tonight. Warm enough for shorts and a tank top. Silent except for the amphibial orchestra and the rush of the wind through the trees, the distant bark of a melancholy dog, and far, far in the distance the hum of traffic. There is no light tonight, save that of my candles, the stark white of my screen, and the orange glow of a neighbor’s window mysteriously veiled by the full flora of spring.

Ah, this, my room.

The End.

If I seem to be abrupt in my ending, it is only that I hear Silas waking, perhaps from a nightmare, in a fit of shudders and screams.
Maybe, again, tomorrow night? Same time, same place?