I Think Therefore I Blog

I want to briefly explain why I post here once or twice a week:

I was standing in the laundry room, taking clothes out of the dryer, folding them neatly and placing them into the laundry basket. I paused to sniff one of my sons’ warm shirts and thought, "The smell of this new fabric softener really brightens up my day." I instantly thought: something has got to change; I've hit rock bottom. Is that all I’ve got to look forward to? Fabric softener? I’ve lost my way. I need a lifeline. I need to climb out of this hole.

As a writer I was stalled, or blocked, whatever you want to call it. My first book was published in 2004, and since then I’ve had 2 kids and I got paying jobs. I got laid off from one of my day jobs in 2009. I was drifting, sinking in fact. So, I started a blog.

I had to write about something I know. I'm home all the time with kids, what do I know...? The mom blog was born. My husband thinks I'm cracked, but I know I would be really crazy if I didn't have the outlet and discipline of it. It’s also energised my writing career. I've finished a draft of book two and am also writing on occasion for print publications and online. I also teach writing. I do other bits, too. All this and full time at home with the kids; am I tired? Yes. Short on funds? Yes. However, I'm much happier--and it's not because I changed fabric softeners.

Mom, Interrupted

After dinner on Tuesdays and Wednesdays and on Saturday mornings, I leave the common living area by slipping out the hall door, up the stairs and into my bedroom. I get comfy, set the lighting, balance the laptop on my legs, and start typing. Like most humans, I spend the first 30 minutes or so messing around on email, facebook, twitter and so on. I start in on a project (an article, a blog post, my novel, whatever). I ease into it, loosing myself, knowing nothing but the words, not thinking just typing, getting into “the zone”, and then—

Knock, knock

I look up. There’s a small scraping sound at the door. The knob is being turned, tentatively. I furrow my brow and purse my lips because I know that there is a five year old out in the hall.

From bed I shout: “Go away.”

“But mom, I just want to tell you something.”

“Not now, I’m working. Talk to Daddy, he’s in charge.”

“But I want to tell you something. It’s just a little thing.”

I sigh deeply, a burning feeling of annoyance in the centre of my chest. I place the laptop safely on the bed, peel myself off the cushions, and go open the door. “What, darling firstborn?”

Five year old looks up at me with impossibly large, dark blue eyes. They search me, trying to determine my level of impatience. “Why do you, like, always come downstairs and have coffee and then come up and work in the morning times, like, everyday?”

“I don’t do that every day, I do that on Saturdays. One morning a week that daddy is in charge. Now, that is not an urgent question, get out of here.” 

From http://www.psych.usyd.edu.au/psyche/optical/12.html



He scampers away.

I close the door, return to my bed and get settled under the laptop. I keep writing the sentence, and then—

Knock, knock

“WHAT??” I shout from the bed.

“Mom...I need your help. I can’t get my zip up.”

“Go ask Daddy.”

“But I’m cold...he can’t hear me...”

I roll my eyes and make a hard, forced frown with my lips that gives my cheeks a funny chipmunk look. Laptop off, get up, go to the door, open it. There stands five year old, half naked.

“Here.” I zip him up. Rub his hair. “Now, get out of here and don’t bother me again. I’ve only got two hours.”

“What are you doing?” He peers around me and into the room.

“Working.”

“On the computer?”

“Yes, now go.” I try to close the door.

He sticks his little hand out, stopping the door before it meets the frame. I notice that I have to clip his nails. “Can I play a Computer game?”

“You know better than that. Get out of here.”

“Just one. The one with the Australian animals. Putting out the fire.”

“Huh? You can play later. After I’m done. Get out of here and leave me alone or you won’t play on that thing again this month.”

“Oh...OK...” Five year old turns and backs away, capitulating. As he turns, however, the door to the dining room downstairs bangs open. Two year old stands in the doorway below, looking both forlorn and angry at the same time. Through the wooden mesh filigree of the banister rails he spots me in the doorway of my bedroom on the top floor.

“Oh, crud.” I back away and try to close the door as quickly as possible.

Two year old, alarmed, calls, “Mammy!”

I turn the lock. If two year old gets in, he’ll climb the bed and start pounding on the keyboard. It’ll be mayhem.

I hear clambering up the stairs on all fours. ‘Where the heck is my husband?’ I wonder about now.

Two year old starts pounding on the bedroom door, “Mammy! MAMMY! I WANT MAMMY!”

Guilt creeps up on me. It’s starts at the small of my back and works its way up my spine, leaving a dark shadow at every vertebrae. Following hot on its heels is an even worse feeling: resentment. This one swoops in from above my right side. It’s a bright yellow colour and settles on my shoulder, laying like a chunk of lead I fear I won’t be able to lift on my own.

I huddle on the bed, under blanket and laptop (the combination of which is making my thighs sweat). I start tapping away at the keys, slowly, building in intensity, thoughts in my head fighting their way through the noise of the kids at door yelling for me. I don’t like ignoring them. It’s difficult. But this is my time.

Eventually, after what seems like years but is probably only 60 seconds, husband arrives at the door and ushers our crazed offspring away. The yelling recedes down the hall and is then muffled by the closing of the hall door to the dining room. I continue typing.

What is Poetry? A Judgement Call

Dave Lordan and I were messaging back and forth recently around the topics of writing and why you write – is it for yourself? Is it for readers? Publishers? If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? If a writer writes and no one is there to read it, does it make a difference? This led me to thinking of when I was young, and wrote alone, in my bedroom, with no intention of showing any of it to anyone.

I bring this all up in context.

Zach walked up to me recently and asked, “What is a poem?”

I opened my mouth and nothing came out. Me, the lady who studied fiction and poetry in grad school, and likes to talk. I’m kind of staring at him.

He looked at me, “Mom?”

I had to think about it for a minute, “Uhm...its words...”

“Yeah?”

“Like a story...but not...not as many words on the page. Also, there’s not necessarily a beginning, middle or end like a story...but there could be. Sometimes it does tell a story, and is really long...Sometimes it rhymes...but not always...it could be really, really short...it has rhythm like a song...beats...but there’s no music playing when you read it...it doesn’t always make sense the way a story does, but you figure out what it’s saying by listening to the words and making a picture in your head...” I was struggling, pitifully. Ms. Manrique, I hear Marilyn Hacker in my head, you get an F.

Zach’s staring at me.

“Uh – let’s go to your bedroom and get the STORIES AND RHYMES FOR BOYS book. I think I have to show and not tell on this one.”

I was wondering why the sudden interest in poetry, then I found out. I picked Zach up from school subsequently, and the teacher handed me a note. It asked my permission for him to participate in a poetry reading competition. The teachers would prep him in reading and interpreting the piece. It would be my responsibility to drive him into town, to an auditorium, where he would stand, on a stage, in front of judges and other children and adults, and read his poem, with expression. He could win or lose or get honourable mention, or whatever it is kids get these days when they’re good but not the best. He would be judged.

He’s 5 (as of yesterday).

That seems awfully young to be standing up in front of crowds of adults who will judge you. Maybe he’s judged all the time. The teacher – he’s always trying to please her. His mother and father – we’re always observing, hovering, encouraging, whatever you want to call it. This child – has he been performing the whole time? He performs when he says he didn’t hit his brother, and I know that he did because of the way Max is crying and the way Zach is looking at me (the slight curl up one side of his mouth and the questioning glint in his eye, which asks: “will she buy this?” No, I won’t. I have eyes like CCTV cameras, strategically placed throughout the house. I know when a baby has been pushed from 2 rooms away).

My husband and I signed him up for the competition. I consoled myself, thinking: I can always pull him out of this later if he’s not happy, if it isn’t working out, if he can’t stand up in front of people...

In the face of the judgement, will he lose his interest in what poetry is, and turn away? Maybe I need to leave him alone to just like poems. If Zach one day writes and no one reads it, it’s still worth something. It’s worth Zach writing it. It’s worth Zach.