blueperiod.

national novel writing month (because a year is just too much time)

Alright. It's on. I'm officially signed up for crazy-making fun through the month of November. That's right, it's NANOWRIMO time again. This will be year four for me; possibly the year I make it to 50,000 words. I'm not certain why I think it's a good idea to try to write a 175-page novel in thirty days, but I'm doing it anyway. I turn thirty-five next week. I've decided to think less.

Scrivener or Ulysses? I've never used any word processor other than Pages or Word. Now, I have notes on paper scraps, in spiral notebooks, paragraphs cut and pasted into empty files, and can appreciate having it all organized in one place. Especially considering Luna's habit of covering every piece of paper she finds with her artwork.

I'm also hoping some changes to my writing habits will help unstick my stuck. Of course, there won't be time for writer's block in November.

rerouted rambler

Okay, so it's been a while since I posted. I know that's nothing new here, but as I did pledge to regularly update my blog, not that long ago, in fact, I feel a little guilty for being away so long. I have been writing, however, so I don't feel too guilty. I just finished up something for this story competition—not that I'm really competitive or anything. I just drawn to deadlines and due dates.

Before that I was working on a short story. Yes, the dreaded short story. You were once my Achilles heel, and now I embrace you wholeheartedly, which gives you a new place to stick your poisoned arrow. We are working out the kinks in this complicated relationship. It helps to listen to the New Yorker Fiction Podcasts, and to spend some time actually reading short stories. I've always been a little "anti" the short story, partly because I hadn't read many that were any good; largely because I couldn't write any that were even decent. (I ramble and have completion issues.) I'm slowly coming around.

I'm actually pretty pleased with my recent output, especially considering the many changes in my life. We moved on April 15th to... No, not New York, not Jersey, not anywhere that follows any line of reasoning. We moved to Philadelphia. It made perfect sense at the time, and despite the occasional bouts of "What were we thinking?!?" we stand by our insane decision. So far, so good. I love how walkable this place is; how easy it is to live without a car. And after living in New York for a bit, I greatly appreciate how manageable this city feels. We're digging it.

Luna seems to be totally in her element. The energy of the city suits my aquarian child. She's ready to go every morning; up for the newest adventure or discovery. Sometimes I find her sitting at my bedroom window with the blinds pulled all the way up. She tells me, "I want to see the whole city. I like the way it looks."

Sol is adjusting pretty well. He was initially very put off by the idea of living in a city. I think his exact words were, "I could never live in the hustle and bustle of a city." He now says he likes city-life, but he misses our old house; his secret hide-out behind the hedges on the side yard. He really misses his friends, too. That's been the hardest part for all of us—leaving our circle of friends, our unschooling community.

I think it's being in-between real-world communities that inspires me to rejoin the virtual communities of writers, mamas, and unschooolers. We are still unschooling, and getting better at everyday. Actually, Sol and Luna are naturals; I'm the one who has to work at it.

Bad day

Yesterday was a bad day. You know it is a bad day when you find yourself saying to the children, "I'm sorry for being so awful. I'm just having a hard day." And then your seven-year-old says, "Yeah, I'm having a hard day, too." Which comes first, the chicken or the tirading mother?

I was the perfect combination of cold and withholding and short-tempered and irrational mixed with high drama and self-pity. In other words, a little my mother, a little my father, and just a dash of Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest.

Now, to give myself some credit, and to put the impact of this bad day into perspective, let me say that a meltdown of this caliber had not been seen round these parts for some time. That is saying something for the melancholy likes of me. Normally I fall apart every four to six weeks, (some people get their hair done, I have mini nervous breakdowns,) but for two and a half months I resembled a fairly-centered, not so fragile human being.

I started meditating; I attended this incredible workshop; and for one glorious month I was writing every single day. Then December came, and I have been on a downward spiral since it showed itself. The timing couldn't be worse, what with Sol's birthday, all the winter celebrations and end of year festivities, not to mention the return of really cold weather. I just want to curl up in a warm cave, with a good book, and wait this thing out.

Of course, all of this is compounded by the fact that I'm one of those people who just isn't satisfied unless I'm making life just that much more difficult for myself. I am addicted to suffering—which makes me a lousy Buddhist. For instance, instead of approaching the gift-giving season methodically—let's make a list, decide on a budget, etc.—I say, sometime around mid-December, "let's make all of our gifts this year!"

Here's another one: "If we are going to celebrate Christmas, then in all fairness we should celebrate Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and the winter solstice, all while practicing non-attachment and riding a unicycle, balancing a stack of plates on our head." Or one of Adam's favorites: "Oh it's New Year's Eve! Let's take this opportunity to completely scour the house from top to bottom, yes, even behind the refrigerator, so that we start the new year off fresh and ensure that this year won't be spent in an unkempt house." As if.

My problem is that I'm really good at imagining what the world should look like, my world, at least, and really bad at dealing with the reality that the world could care less how I see it. This has always been true. So, what was it that caused my George Bailey pre-crisis moment when I threw up my hands and yelled, "Why do we have to live in this crappy little house? Why do we have all these kids? Why do we homeschool?"

Well, I can only guess at this point because today was actually a fine day, and it's always hard for me to see in hindsight just what was such an affront to my sensibilities that they had to jump out the window. I think it's because I haven't been sitting as much lately. I've fallen out of practice with my meditation practice, and this concerns me, but apparently not enough as of yet. There is also the fact that NANOWRIMO is over, and I am still in the midst of a novel I want desperately to finish. Though, now I am without the socially acceptable excuse for sequestering myself and being somewhat antisocial. It's one thing to live like that for a month, but how can I justify it every day for as long as it takes to finish it?

And we have the holidays. I always wondered about those people for whom the holidays are "tough." What does that mean, I'd ask myself, making up tragic Christmas stories in my head. Now, I think I have become one of them. Not that I really have any traumatic Christmas memories, except for that one Christmas that was so awful I tend to remember it as an Easter or a Valentine's Day. But let's face it, this is a very emotional time of year, and I am an emotionally turbulent person. I am bound to be a bit discombobulated.

I just hate those hard days. I could handle them before, but now that I am a mother... It's one thing for Adam to put up with my moods and breakdowns because he's known me for a long time. He is well-aware of how completely insane I can be. He chose me in spite of, or maybe a little because of, it. My children are another story. They are the innocent bystanders to my train-wreck moments.

To this Adam says, "You have to remember, they also chose you." And while this thought makes me feel a little better, it also makes me feel the slightest bit worse.

I can only hope they start aiming a little higher.

blue? not so much

I'm coming out of my blue period. I suppose that happens to the best of us. I want a redesign. Maybe starting from scratch with a new blog. Honestly, there is something heavy and slightly cumbersome about this blog that makes it hard to put on and take off at will. I feel like I'm entering a new phase, transitioning, having that breakthrough turning 30 moment three years late. Really it's like waking up at the first; 33 years late, but better now than never.

I just don't know that this space is right for my current needs. Those current needs being to: document the work we do; keep family and friends updated; maintain a running list of resources; and ultimately, to be a steady kick in the writerly pants or smack with the kyosaku. Why I feel this blog no longer serves me is unclear. What is clear is that all this mental going around has kept me so busy for so long that I haven't had time to do much here or anywhere else.

I like blueperiod. I've had this blog for almost six years. For some reason that seems like a long time. It is nearly as old as my oldest child. I began this blog at about the same time that I began my life as a mother. But I don't feel so blue anymore. I'm more red now, or orange even.

looks like we made it

10,000 words, baby! A little behind schedule, but it still feels good.

Adam had full responsibility for just about everything this weekend while I wrote like a maniac. Luckily Saturday was gorgeous so Sol and Luna spent the day outside. The themes for the day were leaves and The Legend of Zelda.

There was an article in the Sunday Source of the Washington Post about all this noveling madness. Come to think of it, I probably should have been writing instead of reading it.

11% of the way

I'm almost there. I use the word "almost" extremely loosely, and that's okay because it's NaNoWriMo and the point is to use as many words as possible until I get to 50,000. Then if I'm still standing, I can pick through and find the good ones. There are bound to be some, right?

This woman is writing her novel entirely using Tarot Cards. I would like to read that.

I'd hoped to have at least 10,000 words by now but it was my birthday weekend, and things got a little wild, and I kept oversleeping. I'm more of a morning writer, and when I have to write at night it is very slow-going. Still I'm further along than I was at this point five years ago. It's like in Mario Kart when you can race your ghost-self and try to beat your other time.

november? time to write

Just as I'm beginning to think about participating in NaNoWriMo this year, Sol announces that he is going to "write" the seventh book in the Harry Potter series. "I'm going to take ten chapters from each of the other books," he explains. "So, it will have sixty chapters!"

It's so exciting to see the ease with which he approaches math and, now, reading. The other day he warned, "You are going to have to cover my eyes because I just keep reading every word I see."

Luna loves to have her big brother read to her, that is when she's not set on reading to him. She has a fantastic memory, and is really quick with deciphering story based on pictures. This combination of skills has Sol convinced that "even though she is only two" she can read.

"Did you read that?!" Sol asks amazed.
"Yeah," Luna answers nonchalantly.
"That's really good," he says.
"I know that," she responds.

Maybe my novel should be about sibling child-geniuses who take over the world.

you are what you memoir

One of the great things I've discovered about homeschooling is that it forces me to take time for myself because if I didn't, I would go absolutely insane. I'm also encouraged to continue thinking of myself as a learner, to try new things, and to really push beyond my comfort zone. Maybe it's feeling a greater responsibility or something, but I'm more aware of the kind of person I am and want to be, and what and how I model for my children. I'm not sure why homeschooling makes this more clear to me, but I'm grateful for the clarity.

Last night I attended a workshop led by Nan Phifer on writing about childhood. I was a bit skeptical. I have a thing about memoir-writing. It's actually a few things, none of which make any sense. I'm just a fiction girl. I like to read fiction. I like to write fiction. Although, I have to say it was that Autobiographical Writing class at Amherst that made me realize there was only one thing that I wanted to spend the rest of my time in college doing. I am most comfortable with memoir writing. My best writing has been about me, and it just flows so effortlessly. Maybe that's the thing. I feel like it should be all work and suffering.

I didn't buy her book, Memoirs of the Soul because I'm trying to spend as little money as possible these days, but it's on hold for me at the library. I especially like how she addresses the "But who am I to write a memoir?" question, which is one of those things I have about memoir-writing.

What makes memoirs interesting has little to do with the importance or achievements of the writer.  Rather, the shared experiences, vivid memories, expressed feelings, and reflections that affect the mind and heart of the reader are what make memoirs significant.  Think of the novels you have loved.  The main characters are not usually people of renown or great achievement.  It is their humanity that is important to us.  In writing about your inner life, you will show your humanity.

This is actually my thing with blogging, too. Who cares? Honestly, Who is that interested in my life. I'm not famous or accomplished or anything. But then, I'll spend an evening reading some strangers weblog because there is something about what this person conveys that rings true, that resonates with my existence. Hmmm...

After the workshop ended She was all, "Okay, now get to work on that memoir!", and all the other participants were like, "Yeah, you bet!" And I couldn't believe that all these people were just raring to get their memoirs written. I seemed to be the only one struggling with the questions of significance and relevance. I think the narcissistic implications of the memoir are hard for me to get past. But I suppose it's really my own perceptions that I have to get past. Let she who cannot stop making everything about her, write a story with a protoganist that is a thinly-veiled version of herself. Or something.

I like the idea of the memoir as a personal tool; a family record, a means of initiating a reconciliation, an invitation to family and friends for a deeper understanding, a memorialization of a loved one or sacred moment. Thinking about it in that way makes the whole thing so much more appealing.

Some of her advice— Don't be afraid to ramble, Don't judge what you write, Be careless and free with your rough draft— reminds me of Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones, which really inspired me to consider the value of journaling, and writing for and from the self. When I asked Nan her opinion on how weblogs fit into the picture, she called them a form of journaling, and made a clear distinction between journal writing and memoir writing. With memoir writing the emphasis is on specific moments or memories, and the creative power they hold, as opposed to just putting down the random particulars of the mind at any given moment. I don't know. I think of each post as a kind of mini-memoir. Who would want to read my journal?

so, what do you do?

I'm running a little experiment here. I've decided that while the glowing box babysits, I will pretend, for that half an hour that I would normally spend doing dishes or laundry, that I am actually a writer. Dum-dee-dum... I am a writer, and I am doing very important work here at my desk. Really. If I do this everyday, and gradually increase the amount of time as circumstances allow, then I can continue to call myself a writer, even if I am never published again. Surely if I keep this up I will eventually produce something of note; something I can point to and say, "See, I told you I was a writer."

It is becoming clear that my problem is not so much that I don't have time to write, which is true, but more that I don't make time to write. I don't take that time out of my day because it isn't a priority. It isn't a priority because I don't take myself seriously as a writer. I don't take myself seriously as a writer because I do not write. I do not write because I do not have time to write. I don't have time to write because I don't make time to write. The whole thing, spellled out as it is here, is quite pathetic.

I've been thinking a lot about what Mike said, and I wonder if it really is about the urge, the necessity to write. What if that is the missing piece for me; the thing that makes me not really a writer, but simply someone who enjoys writing? And would that be so terrible a thing? I like to pretend I'm something I'm not, but I don't feel a need to call myself an actor. Why must it be tied to my identity?

Well, I think some of it has to do with how I'd like to see myself as opposed to how I really see myself. Like, I want to be a writer. I admire writers. I admire all artists, but I have a special affinity for the writer. I understand that type of artistry that is creative, but still too tied to the intellect to truly transcend this earth, and therein lies the torment that is necessary for any really good art. I can dig it. The other part of it must be tied to my sense of who I am in actuality. I think that the more entrenched in motherhood I became, the more desperately I clung to that other thing.

"So, what do you do?"
"Oh, I'm a writer," and then, as an afterthought, as if it were possible to be an afterthought, "and I stay at home with my kids."

What is it about being a— do I dare to say it? yes, I do— Stay-At-Home Mother that makes me feel ill at ease? I don't feel uncomfortable while I'm doing it, except for those times when there is a tiny finger up my nose, or thirty pounds on my back, or a seemingly interminable shrieking in my ear. And even those aren't as bad as they sound, well, at least, much more tolerable than they sound. It's just when I say it out loud, which I don't, ever. You see, normally, I find comfort in labels. What is not to love about a nice, neatly lettered sticker that tells me exactly where something fits in, like the files in my box or the cans in my cupboard. When everything is where it should be, then I can relax. Only, I don't really want to fit in. In actuality, I require a bit more freedom than that.

When people think I'm a writer, they want to talk to me. When they think I'm a stay-at-home mom, they assume I don't have anything to say. I am reminded of how little we value children. That is really what it comes down to. I remember this from working in childcare. There is very little pay, and very little respect. I was a college student, and was therefore treated a little better because I was going on to do more important things eventually. We think of this kind of work as not really working at all. It's not professional work; basically unskilled labor. In fact, can it really be called work if there is no money involved? And it's not like I'm saving the world. No, just shaping the new one. The thought that my life would have seemingly more value if I went to work everyday and sent my children to be cared for by someone else, is baffling to me. I might be more at ease with that label, but I wouldn't be comfortable.

I have to remind myself that I choose this life. Everyday, I, we, make sacrifices so that our children can have this. So that they can have this foundation, which I feel is essential to who they are. I'm lucky I get to choose. So, really, what's a little identity theft when all of that is taken into consideration?