I don’t know if I share this with all writers or just the super-neurotic ones (although, is there any other kind?), but I have this pretty much constant voice in the back of my head at all times saying “Shouldn’t you be writing?”
A few weeks ago, I got some good news: in one week, three of my short essays were accepted for publication at three different places. For a brief glorious moment, the voice was silenced, and I began to consider myself a Real Writer. But soon it was back again. “Those short pieces represent the sum total of your work for the past year—you need to generate more content!” [cracks whip]
Voice, you are a jerk.
I’ve been listening to a lot of podcasts in my car lately, ever since the election made NPR too traumatizing, and one of them is a series of Tara Brach‘s Buddhism and mindfulness lectures. One thing she talks about is how we think we’ll be happy when—when x, y, or z happens. Then if it somehow happens, we raise the bar and think, “I’ll be happy when…” and come up with something else.
And so our lives go by.
So I’m really trying to be happy with the present moment. Yes, happy with acceptances when they arrive, but happy when I’m rejected because it is a triumph to submit at all, happy when I can peck out a few sentences on my phone late at night, or happy even in the fact of not having time to write, what with my job and two small children Hoovering up every spare moment. Happy in particular when I am able to enjoy other people’s writing or other artistic efforts—they provide stimulation and variety during a time in my life that can seem limited in its horizons: work, home, work, home.
Some art I’m grateful to have experienced lately:
Went to see a Mountain Goats show. Normally I agree with Nabokov’s sentiment: “Music, I regret to say, affects me merely as an arbitrary succession of more or less irritating sounds.” But when I am dragged to a performance by my music-fan partner, I often like it, sometimes love it. John Darnielle’s lyrics are intriguing, and they’re often memoiristic—they engage me as writing. And he has a riveting stage presence.
Books. I recently finished Bohumil Hrabal’s Too Loud a Solitudeand Gail Honeyman’s Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine and just started Roxane Gay’s Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body. The last two I’ve been listening to on CD in my car (you may notice a trend here—driving around is when I have the most spare time), and it changes the experience—for Honeyman’s book because of all the delightful Scottish accents, and for Gay’s because she reads it herself, adding another dimension of embodiment to a book that is all about the body.
So yes, I should be writing, but I’m also learning to accept when I’m not writing.
I added another essay to the “My Writing” page today. “Not So Gladly Teach,” which I wrote a couple of years ago for an anthology. Progress!
By the way, despite the title of that essay, the workshop I led for Iowa City Poetry went really well. It was a great group—community members who voluntarily spend one Sunday evening a month writing poetry (or other kinds of writing) together. They could be at home watching Game of Thrones and/or lying prostrate in exhaustion from their week (I’m the latter), but they make it out the door and challenge themselves to be creative. All kudos to them!
Welcome to my brand-new–as in the past few minutes–website! I’ve been meaning to start a personal website for oh, I don’t know, the last five years, but I have this chronic case of busy-ness. Back in the day, I at least had a blog, which I will find and link sometime for the sake of history, but that soon fell by the wayside when I had my first child. Suddenly I was that hard-to-spot creature (because moving so fast), the Working Mom, and the self-development represented by a website, or any personal project, was quickly subsumed in the daily survival and logistical needs of an infant, balanced with the fact that I was somehow still expected to get work done at work. I tapped out journal entries on my phone during late-night feedings, anticipating this moment of long-awaited leisure to–
Just kidding! I had another kid (now 9 months), so I’m still in the thick of it. The only reason I am publishing this site now is that the good people of Iowa City Poetry and Prompt Press asked me to run a workshop for them next week, and I gave them the URL of the still-skeletal site for their publicity materials, knowing it would force me to add some content. So here I am, pecking out this entry one-handed, while the baby snoozes on my other arm.
So, thank you, Iowa City Poetry and Prompt Press, for making this website happen! And dear reader, thank you for visiting. I hope you come again soon–I promise updates more than once every 5 years.