The More the Merrier (as in more friends, but yeah, more writing too)

I've been revisiting a lot of my old writing lately.

Since I recently started taking online writing workshops, I needed to carve out some sort of daily work space for my writing and lessons. Silence has always been big for me. And no clutter. I like a space that feels my own and is silent.

Reality check.

I live in a tiny, noisy, love-filled house that I share with my three favorite humans. (Two of those humans are boys--teenage boys.) They are all amazingly respectful of my writing time: they turn down their TVs (to still-audible-in-the-other-room-levels), always apologize after they interrupt me, and only roughhouse and bond loudly over inappropriate jokes with their dad until they remember I'm sitting there.

I realized the writing had not been happening for way too long, so it was time to stop making excuses and find a way to adjust (anyone who knows me probably chuckled right there..I'm not known for my flexible adaptability). So here's what I did: I completely commandeered the dining room table (which is literally only used for actual dining when it's my turn to host book club and the rest of the time is the holder of all things random and pending). My shiny new red laptop and adorably kitschy turquoise mouse now sit there, along with printed reminders of my writing. My writing notebook. The 9 instructional books I wrote. The anthology in which one of my essays was published. And my blog books which hold 12 years worth of my writing.

Twelve years. Lately, every time I looked here, on this blog, instead of noticing how much I had written over the years, I would focus on the gaps of time between posts. I would focus on how many ideas never got put to paper (or screen). So while taking these courses...recreating and rebuilding my writing practice...I needed some reminders of what I've created through the years. Now, when I sit at my no-one-ever-dines-here-dining-table, I feel like it's my space. It is far from silent and somewhat cluttered, but I'm using the noise in my head to tune out the gaming noises and episodes of "Breaking Bad," and the clutter that sits on this table inspires me to remember what I have done and what I can do. 

********************************

The following essay was published in The HerStories Project: Women Explore the Joy, Pain, and Power of Female Friendship (edited by Jessica Smock and Stephanie Sprenger of The HerStories Project.) It was originally posted here on September 30, 2010.

The More the Merrier

I've been thinking a lot about friendships lately.

My dearest friend's 7-year-old granddaughter is having some issues on the playground. She can't quite understand how her best friend can be her best friend one day and completely ignore her the next.

"That's just rude, Gram. And it hurts my feelings."

It's tough being a girl. Women are difficult creatures. We desperately need each other but we push each other away, claw and snap and bitch, and talk behind each other's backs.

My friend assured her granddaughter that "one day" she'd find that one true best friend:

"Really, Gram? You promise?"

"I promise."

I told my friend that I thought that had been a terrible promise to make (we're honest like that). I'm not sure I really believe in the notion of a best friend anymore, although lately (and here's the truly ironic part) I feel I am in some of the healthiest relationships of my life. The notion of That One True Best Friend--the promise that little girl is holding out for--puts a whole lot of pressure on her and especially on the girls around her. No one person should be responsible for being every thing to anyone.

That little girl may be so busy looking for that One Girl that she may miss out on all the ones skipping happily around her on the playground.

* * *

In spite of the fact that most people would probably describe me as very outgoing, I've actually spent most of my life being somewhat anti-social. Growing up, I was never accepted into any of the Cliques Of The Moment, and more often than not, I'd find somebody who was "like me" (read: a little too loud or a little too dramatic or a little too awkward or a little too whatever I happened to be at the time) and I'd latch on. I'd found her: my friendship soulmate! And eventually, as is almost always inevitable with females, she'd screw me over. There was Marilyn in 3rd grade, who one day came back from lunch and abruptly and silently pulled her desk a few inches away from mine and refused to speak to me. I remember Lena, in middle school, who decided hanging out with "the other girls" was way cooler than hanging out with me (she was probably right). The list goes on and on. I realize there were probably many times that I, too, had disappointed them...I don't doubt that I said something completely inappropriate to Marilyn that day at lunch, but couldn't she have told me what that something was?

What I've come to realize over the last couple of years is that all that time I spent excluding everyone else to be with my One True Best Friend, I had missed out. A lot. On people, outings, experiences, adventures, life lessons.

I now find myself surrounded by a lot of really remarkable women...some I had pushed aside for years because I simply "didn't have the time" to spend with them. I am more open, less judgmental, and having a whole heck of a lot more fun. My "collection" of girlfriends are all incredibly different: with some I can discuss, in great details, Marc Jacobs's personal make-over...others shop "exclusively" at Walmart and Target. For some of my friends, sweating is restricted to dancing and sex...others are game for anything from a 5k to a full-out adventure race. I would not call any one of these women my Best Friend. I know who I can call in the middle of the night when my kid is running a fever of 105. I know who I can call when I'm desperate for a night of dancing and drinks. Some of these women know secrets about me that the rest of the world would be shocked to know. Others, I'm just starting to truly trust.

Today, I "asked a girl out." Well, that's what it felt like, anyway. I recently started to talk to someone at work who seems to be so amazingly interesting and intelligent and just plain "cool," that I stepped out of my old comfort zone and, after 30 minutes of chatting about designer galoshes, world-wide travel, Christian Louboutins, mamas' boys, marriage and children, I decided to make a plan to get together next week. This may seem like a totally normal thing to do. But for me, it felt foreign. This woman may become one of my girls. Or, perhaps we will get together and have absolutely nothing to talk about (although after that 30-minute-all-inclusive-chat, I doubt it!). But the point is that I have finally figured out that I don't need one Best Friend. I need lots of really fantastic friends. I am no longer disappointed, because I don't put all my eggs in one basket. I have lots of baskets, and I'm skipping happily around with them on the playground.

Returning to my writing and my self

After taking another hiatus from my writing, I realized (yet again) that I simply cannot not write. As it so often happens with The Universe, something perfectly timed landed in my lap (or my inbox, really), and I jumped back in. After completing the writing course with The Herstories Project, I decided to go down the memory lane of this blog and found this poem, which I wrote--how appropriately--after another one of my writing "breaks." I don't even remember writing it, but I thought: what a fitting way to come back here, to this space, and put my voice back out there.

Wish You Were Here

if you come back

to your words

your space

after a very long time

if you come back

does it matter

if anyone missed you

or only if

you missed yourself

if you come back

do you have to explain

to yourself

or anyone else

why you were gone

*originally posted here on October 4, 2014

...but then her kids became people

I fell in love with the power of a perfectly-crafted sentence when I was in second grade.

Ms. Davis was one of my least favorite teachers ever. She rarely smiled, had a raspy, nicotine voice, and had some sort of scarring on her neck that scared the hell out of my 7-year-old little self. But every day after lunch, she would perch herself upon a wooden stool and read aloud a chapter from Ramona Quimby, Age 8. I fell completely in love with mischievous little Ramona. When Beverly Cleary wrote about the pink eraser Ramona's father gave her as a little gift, I felt like I, too, could feel its rubbery smoothness in my palm and smell that perfect new-eraser smell. I didn't know that I could fall into a book in this way simply because a writer could write a good story. (Remember, I'm old...my kindergarten reading memories consist mostly of sitting in front of a giant chart and reading sentences about a girl named Meg, her dog, Spot, and all those Dick and Jane bores.) After Ms. Davis finished Ramona, and I found out there were more books about Ramona and her sister, I made my dad take me to the public library, where I had the librarian teach me where I could find the rest of the them. I then proceeded to methodically check out, read, return, repeat until I had read all of the Cleary books (yes, even the ones about the mouse and that Henry Huggins kid). 

A bit later, cheesy pre-teen paperbacks came into my life. Whenever we visited the cousins, I spent as much time as possible in my older cousin's room, admiring all her uber-cool, teenage paraphernalia. She had a closet door covered with posters and high school football ribbons and a book shelf filled with paperbacks that had pouty, preppy-looking girls looking wistfully towards mannequin-handsome football player types. I was fascinated. She would lend me any book she deemed not too racy and I could never wait to go back. It was like my own little teenage-themed public library. I still have the book she lent me that made me want to write. I can't, for the life of me, remember what, exactly, it was about, but I remember finishing it and feeling something really important that I could not name. It sits on my bookshelf, still, among Hemingway, Outlander, Tuesdays with Morrie, and my poetry books. Every time I do one of those house purges, I pick it up, look at it, feel a bit sheepish for keeping it, think about putting it in the "donate" pile, and then put it back on the shelf. I am pretty sure it was right after finishing that book that I really started to try my hand at "chapter books." I still have a huge box in my guest room filled with rubber-banded, typed chapters of unfinished "novels." My ages when I started them probably range from 11 to 17. I have not read them in years. They take up a ton of space in my nearly-tiny house. I still can't get rid of them.

I started this blog because early parenting made me feel stifled and overwhelmed. I had a hard time figuring out how the life I had before I had kids would transform into the life I was living now. Don't get me wrong; I always wanted kids. In fact, Hubby and I had quite a few struggles having Ben, so I was quite grateful we managed to have 2 healthy boys. This, however, just contributed to my feelings of guilt and confusion in those early years: I wanted this, so why am I not feeling like those "happy-happy-joy-joy" women who came before me and told me things like "Becoming a mother was the most fulfilling thing I've ever done" or "I knew the moment they put my newborn son on my chest that I loved him more than anything."

The boys grew up on these pages, and really, so did I. I suspect if I look back and count, I wrote more posts venting about the bad stuff with a bit of humor mixed in than gloriously gushing. I was totally, completely honest. And the response was overwhelmingly positive. Suddenly, I was hearing lots of "Me too!" and "Ohmigod, this parenting thing sucks!" and "I didn't know it would be this hard!" One of my most statistically popular posts was called "Sometimes I don't like my kid." I never felt like I was betraying them. Really, they were barely people then. Ben was 3 1/2 and Kai was a few months old. I complained about potty training and preschool playground drama and my toddler flipping me the bird. My readers either related to it or they didn't, but if they judged, they were judging my parenting and perception of it, not my kids.

It's different now.

Over the last few years, they've turned into actual human beings with opinions and passions and their own mini struggles. Almost every time I thought "I gotta write about this..." I stopped myself. If I wrote about my teen's social struggles, there was a really good chance someone who knew someone who knew him was going to read about it. I knew my son did not want his pre-teen dramas unfolding on my pages, because no matter how insignificant or typical they were in reality, they were neither of these to him. My 11-year-old is just now entering those years of social trial-and-error and trying out different personas and becoming interested in girls. Although he does not have the intensity of his older brother, I know he is easily embarrassed and hates it when I talk about nearly anything that is even slightly-possibly-maybe-personal in front of just about anyone else.

So. This blog sat here silently and I tried repeatedly to silence my words inside my own head. I told myself I was done and that it had served its purpose and that really, who the hell even uses the word blog anymore and they weren't babies anymore and there was no need. But here's the problem: the theme of this blog might have been my kids, but what it really always has been is a space for my words.. And now that my kids are (almost) their own people and I am (almost) feeling like an actual person who is way more than just a mom in survival mode, I still have (almost) perfectly-crafted sentences left to write. 

I am a writer

I am a writer

always have been

I remember

when I was little

I did not covet

my sister's clothes

so much

it was 

her typewriter

I could not

get to it

fast

enough

Sometimes

it lies dormant

for whatever the reason

I can not

tend to it

and I think

Oh

It is done

I am good

that part of me

I've had enough

I've done enough

I'm good

Then

it comes back

it gnaws at me

I ignore it

push it away

scoff

ignore

eye roll

wait

it will recede

that feeling

but then the feeling

becomes a need

and I am

simultaneously

irritated and relieved

it's there

it won't go away

dammit

I have to write again

I am a writer

always have been

and so

I am back

begrudgingly

here I am 

unavoidable

you can only ignore

who you are

for so long

Look who's on Mamapedia (again)!

This is the second time I hesitate on posting a piece, fearing it's not "good enough," and then I'm contacted about having it featured on Mamapedia.com.

Surely, there is a lesson to be learned here...

Honored, once again, to be the featured voice today! 

Look who's on Mamapedia today!

My simple and happy post about my simple and happy life is being featured on Mamapedia today!

Needless to say, I'm quite happy about it.

It's funny: when I wrote that post, my only intention was to get my feelings down on paper. I was sitting in my backyard, listening to music, watching my boys playing in the pool, and wanted to capture the simple bliss I was feeling at that moment...the feeling of gratitude and contentment. It was one of those experiences I have sometimes where I just put pen to paper and go. The words sorta come out of me without any effort or self censorship. I was happy when I finished it, and here's the thing: I almost didn't post it on the blog. I was worried it would seem boastful or pointless. And then I had to remind myself that my blog is, first and foremost, for myself. A couple of days later, I was contacted my Mamapedia. It was another reminder that I shouldn't second guess myself and my words so much.

So yeah, no big deal...just go on over to Mamapedia...'cause I'm right there...ya know....where it says "Mamapedia National Voices" and "Mamapedia Miami Voices". 

I'm not good at good-byes. I'm even worse at Skyping.

I suspect that most people who know me would say I am very social.

Outgoing.

Friendly.

That's true.

But what's also true is that I have a very select group of people who I consider "close."

In my early 20's I remember saying I had a List Of My Favorite People In The World.

Now that I'm in my 40's, I don't go around announcing that so much anymore (instead, apparently, I just write about it on a public forum), but it's still true.

I can count those people on one hand. It's a very elite group of people, if I do say so myself.

And before you all go and think that I'm boasting here because they are so lucky to be considered one of my elites, let me go on record, that what I'm actually boasting about is how lucky I am to have them on My List. (You all know who you are.)

And now, one of those Very Elite People is leaving.

She is moving.

To France.

I am terrible at geography, but I know for a fact that that's really fucking far.

And I am at a complete loss.

I knew it was coming. In actuality, I've suspected it for years. There are people that you just know are not going to remain in one place for too long. I've had her in my life for nearly a decade. I'm shocked it's taken her this long to get to this point in her life, really. She's just not a Miami-kinda-girl. She's sorta like a hummingbird. She flits and flutters with a dizzying display of colors and movement. She's a perpetual blur.

And yes, I know. The world is small these days. There is texting and Skyping and apps that I have no clue about that I will most certainly have to learn how to use and we will most definitely absolutely without a doubt stay in touch and she will come back and forth for work and maybe even we will all go up to visit her on a fabulous South of France holiday worthy of being turned into a Woodie Allen-like comedy starring Drew Barrymore as me and Maggie Gyllenhaal as her and it will be just the same.

But it won't.

And so.

Here I am, with one my Elite Favorite People In The Whole World leaving and I am so damn happy for her and so damn sad for me that I don't know which one hurts more.

And so.

When I don't know what to do and I don't know how to cope, there is only one thing I can do, and that is write. (How ironic, considering my last post, no?) 

I got home tonight from her teeny studio apartment with the purple settee and the loose-leaf tea canisters and the professional photo equipment, after a take-out dinner of her favorite Indian food and a bottle of Trader Joe's red wine, weighed down by the garbage bags filled with her hand-me-down clothes and shoes. "I'm purging at least 50% of my closet before I move!" she declared. "And I want you to have first dibs because you'll appreciate it the most!" I explained to my boys (mostly my Ben, the 9-year-old-going-on-40) why my eyes were puffy. They, who love her too, were not happy either. "Right now, I'm hating Europe," Ben choked. I started to go through the clothes, wipe down the brown leather boots I had coveted for almost as long as I'd known her, tried one on, slipped it off, left it on the kitchen floor, came to the sofa, opened the laptop and here I am.

My words are really all I can give

to this friend who has taught me that...

...galoshes are perfectly acceptable with a summer dress to go window shopping at an indoor mall.

...I "must exploit" my eyelashes.

...in a pinch, hair works just as well as floss.

...if you really need a mixer for your flask of vodka while in the middle of downtown Miami during Art Basel, you can probably get some free coke (and a highball glass!) if you walk down an alley and smile at a caterer.

...I look much better in color.

...I take too many things way too seriously.

...Photoshop is not a myth.

...it's perfectly awesome to be myself.

...I am not the only person in the world who can have an intensely serious conversation about the meaning of my stiletto collection.

...there is no shame in rocking back and forth and sobbing uncontrollably as long as you are doing it with someone you trust.

...consignment shops really are the single best place to shop for true treasures.

...reading about Nietzsche is not that bad.

...reading about a post-apocalyptic road is. 

...green shimmery eye shadow can, in fact, be worn to work in the middle of the day.

...there are other people who ponder and wonder and fret and analyze and dream just as much as I do.

...I am not the only girl who thinks that an adventure race is the perfect venue for some shimmery body lotion.

...every Thelma needs a Louise, but every Louise needs a Thelma.

To you, my friend, I want to go on record as saying you made me a better Me. I am most certainly a cooler, stronger, more interesting and authentic version of myself because of you.

Thanks for the boots...they'll look hot with my new farmer's market hippie chic outfit. In fact, it may have to go on my Elite List of Favorite Outfits in the World.

You should be honored.

My lists are almost as coveted as your boots.

Writer's Apathy (Or: Sh*t. That Didn't Work Either.)

The only thing I seem to be writing about lately is not wanting to write.

Every time I think about a possible blog post, I tell myself I'll do it tomorrow. Every time I psych myself up that I need to spend some time on here, I go do laundry. Every time I remember that I am not "writing enough," I turn on HGTV.

And every time this happens, an urgent, nagging little voice inside my head violently whispers: "What the fuck is wrong with you lately?"

I'm a writer. It's what I've done and who I've been since I was old enough to peck away at my older sister's typewriter, feeling very important and wise and creative and inspired.

Inspired.

Maybe that's the problem here.

How can I get inspired to write again? Where can I find the inspiration to miss my blog, to need  to write?

Hmmm...writing...inpiration...blogging....hmmm....

Eureka! I've got it!

I thought I had hit the obvious jackpot when it occurred to me that I needed to go back to my favorite blogs, my favorite writers, the women who have inspired me all of these years since I had started my own blog. You see, not only have I not been coming here, to this space, to write; I have also not gone to anyone else's space to read.

I sat down today and started at the top of my personal blog roll of faves, and caught up with some of these old friends. But a startling thing happened....something that has never happened before.

Yes, I smiled as I revisited these favorite blogs. Yes, I read great stuff. Yes, they gave me important stuff to think about.

But that was it.

When I was done, I still didn't want to write.

In fact, I was almost...(my fingers literally hesitated over the keys just now because I feel like I'm selling out; not sure on who)...tired.

Tired.

Instead of feeling re-energized and inspired, I felt tired.

Sounds like a bad poem.

There.

I wrote a bad poem.

Does that count?

Hesitation

I would love to declare that my absence from this blog was some sort of conscious uncoupling. Then it would seem that I did it for the better of...I don't know..this blog? Myself? My family? Not to mention that it would make me seem sorta enlightened and very Gwyneth Paltrow-y.

Oh, wait.

I don't really like Gwyneth Paltrow that much.

Okay, so, the truth is: I just got lazy.

At first, I felt totally justified: I was swapping one life for another and things were hectic and busy and exhausting and I was sure I'd be eaten by one the many boxes that were multiplying like Gremlins in my (former) house.

Then there were the perfect moments to blog: saying goodbye to a house I thought was My Dream House (which was pretty good, since I never got the Barbie version when I was a kid); the slight insanity of the four of us living temporarily in my parents' house; the nearly-crippling, irrational fears of taking on yet another house to remodel on our own...  The opportunities for writing were endless.

I could have (should have?) written every damn day.

But I didn't.

Again, the rationalizing: I was tired. I was overwhelmed. I was tearing down walls and wondering what the fuck we had done and obsessing over possible asbestos and fantasizing about what this new little house would look like when we were done.

But again, the truth: I was just lazy. I couldn't get motivated enough to sit at the computer at the end of the day. I didn't care "that much" about writing about all of this. When I had free time, I chose to watch reruns of HGTV or drink some wine or sleep.

And then here's what happened: the longer I was away, the harder it was to come back.

Do you remember double dutch back in your elementary school phys ed days? I remember. The two kids would swing those ropes and I'd stand there, next in line to jump, my weight on my front foot, my body slightly rocking to the ropes' rhythm, waiting for that perfect moment to go. So often, I'd nearly go, ready to go. I was good at jumping. I knew what I was doing. This, shockingly, was not one of those P.E. moments when I was stressed and fretting and feeling completely incompetent. I could fucking double dutch. Yet, there were still so often those moments when I'd flinch forward, the timing perfect, ready to make a smooth entrance into the swinging ropes. But I'd hesitate. No, no. Wait. Not now. Wait. 1...2...now. No, wait. Now. The longer I stood there, body rocking, watching the alternating ropes forming perfect smooth arcs in front of me, the harder it was to jump in. More often than not, when that happened, I'd miss it...maybe by a millisecond...maybe by a millimeter, but I'd hit one of the ropes. The perfect rhythm would stop. I'd get tangled up. My turn would be over. All that just to get back at the end of the line. Damn.

This was sorta like that. I'd open the laptop. I'd wait for the perfect rhythm, the timing, and then, I'd hesitate. No, no. Wait. 1..2....

I figured the longer I was gone from here, the more poignant the "return post" would have to be.

How incredibly narcissistic and self-important of me.

I figured I'd have to write about what's happened in my life the last few months: some great post on my new life in my little house, the obstacles and fears that were overcome, the things given up, the rewards, the lessons learned. But no, apparently, instead I thought some random frivolous Halloween post would be just perfect. And then (oh no, here comes the over-thinking), I started worrying about how ridiculous and pathetic it would be if I never blogged again and my Last Blog Post Ever was some drivel about a bad Halloween costume.

Again, how incredibly narcissistic and self-important of me.

So here I am. I'm not really sure if I will get back in line when this turn is over and go again.
But the ropes are swinging over my head and under my feet, and I'm jumping.

Wish You Were Here

if you come back

to your words

your space

after a very long time

if you come back

does it matter

if anyone missed you

or only if

you missed yourself

if you come back

do you have to explain

to yourself

or anyone else

why you were gone

Happy belated birthday to my neglected third child

While I've been busy trying to dodge the man-eating boxes invading my house, this blog turned 5 years old. Five! That's a biggie, no? I mean, when my first-born turned 5, we threw him a full-blown party--complete with an acrobatic, wall-climbing Spiderman impersonator (trust me: it was one of the rare times in our parenting history when we did something really expensive and over-the-top, but thankfully, it was actually worth it).

Half a decade.
Five years.
269 blog posts.

When I started, I wondered if I'd survive the year (and early motherhood). And look at me now: preparing to switch over to Wordpress all by myself, with a brand new domain name and everything (and no longer crying hysterically from sleep deprivation and the identity crisis that often comes with becoming a new mom).

My blog and I are all grown up.

This blog was born of need and desperation. I was out running and doing what I usually do when I hit that good runner's high: attempting to recreate myself in my own head. (Maybe this is why I'm getting boring as I'm gaining weight--my knees have finally decided to strike in protest until I give in to the surgeon, and running is a distant memory.) I was thinking about how much I miss writing--the words, the sentences, the musings, the freedom. As my feet pounded the asphalt, my brain pounded out ideas, much like that  "I Love Lucy" episode in the bonbon factory.
I need to write again. I used to write a lot. Maybe I should write a book. Could I really write a book? I have no brain cells lately. I can barely stay awake, let alone write anything. How could I come up with a plot and characters when my own life is a dizzying whirlwind of diapers and potty training, bottles and sippy cups, first steps and tantrums?
The main characters of my own real life, Ben (then, 4) and Aidan Kai (a few months old), were draining the creativity and energy out of me. That's when it hit me: write about them. Write about how hard and wonderful and funny and scary this--Motherhood--all is.

I remember walking in the door at the end of my run, sweaty and red-faced, and proclaiming to Hubby "I need a minute!" I marched straight over to the computer that sat tucked away in a corner of what was supposed to be the family room, but was really the toy-bin-and-baby-floor-mat-area/indoor-soccer-field/general-room-of-crap-and-miscellaneous. I opened Word and typed nearly frantically. After a few minutes I was done, and on the screen, where the cursor still sat blinking, were several sentences and a mishmash of notes on essays I thought I could throw together into a book. Musings on what my life had become since I'd had my kids, how I'd changed as a person--in ways I had wanted to and in ways I absolutely had not. Anecdotes, basically.

What I thought, at that moment, might be chapter titles soon morphed into blog posts.

The title But Then I Had Kids came relatively easily. It seemed to me, then (and sometimes still now), that all my reasons and excuses for not being able to do something--anything--were related to my kids.
I used to be cool. I used to travel. I used to go to fancy martini bars. I used to be interesting. I used to be thin(ner). I used to skip undereye concealer. But then I had kids. I walked around in a daze, for about 3 years, eyes unfocused, disoriented, tired, overwhelmed, and feeling guilty about all of it, while my boys were babies.

Those 269 blog posts not only helped get me through those early years, but they helped me rediscover my writer's voice, my craft, and my sense of self. They gave me an outlet for venting and connected me to other women and writers who felt the same way. They helped me be a part of something bigger than my often-cramped world, and pried open my head so some of the noise could escape.

I've beat myself up quite a bit over neglecting this blog. No matter the stage, it's never been enough:
I'm not writing enough or I'm not writing well enough. I don't have enough comments or I haven't followed other blogs consistently enough. I'm not social-media savvy enough or I'm not disciplined enough to keep up with it like I should. I don't put enough into it--ever.

Over the last year, I've tried to take in some of the advice I've learned from other writers: that I need to approach the work as I can, and sometimes that means dedicating hours to it a week, while other times, it means only a bit at a time, if at all. I have to remind myself constantly that I am a full time teacher, wife, mother, friend, and individual...and that all of those roles need my attention. My role as Writer might sometimes monopolize a lot of my time, but more often than not, the best I can give it is a few inspired but exhausted minutes at the end of a long weeknight.

I had hoped to have my new blog site up and running by my fifth anniversary. Not only did I not meet my self-imposed deadline (I am really starting to think I should have a section dedicated to the word "self-imposed" on the blog), I actually forgot my blog's anniversary...and then even after I remembered, only got to writing about it nearly a month later. You do know I fretted and beat myself up a bit over this, right? I guess after 5 years,  you all know me pretty well. But it's all good. You know I ain't going anywhere.

Happy 5th Birthday, Little Blog. Thanks for the ride.

Lonely: Just Write Tuesdays

Sometimes, if I'm really lucky, if everything has aligned just so, if I'm really moved or inspired or, especially, feeling something really intensely, I write in an almost-trance. It's weird. And liberating. And miraculous. And incredibly fulfilling. I can compare it to when you're driving somewhere and you arrive at your destination and realize with jarring suddenness that you have absolutely no recollection of having gotten there. When these writing out-of-body-experiences happen, sometimes I reread my work and can barely remember writing it. It feels effortless and automatic and instinctual. At the risk of sounding super corny and all transcendental: it's like the words came out through me, and I was just the vessel. (Gag.)

So when I found out about Heather King's online course "Just Write: The Art of Free Writing,", I thought I would be okay. I had already participated a few times in her Just Write Tuesdays, and read a lot of her work. I thought this would be sorta like a stream-of-consciousness thing or a just-don't-censor-or-edit-yourself thing. It wasn't.

It was hard.

And really, really good for me.

Heather says free writing should come more from a memory or the actual description of an experience you're having right then and there. You start out with no real "point," or message. The theme, she says, will (usually and hopefully) reveal itself to you. So for today's Just Write Tuesday, I thought I'd post my homework assignment from the course. Here is my first official I-think-I-did-it-right-this-time-Just-Write. Thanks, Heather.

Join in...Just Write!

I sit in the upholstered denim blue rocking chair, my feet on the ottoman.  Back and forth. Steady. Smooth.

It’s still and quiet, like I am the only one at home in the neighborhood. The wooden blinds are open, and I look out the window periodically, the day outside sunny and bright, the trees still. I can see part of the small playground and my neighbors’ house across the street, their driveway empty.

Ben is sound asleep in my lap. His bottle, nearly empty on the changing table next to me, a few drops of the grayish-white formula left at the bottom. His lips, a perfectly pink pout, are slightly open, his breathing steady, even, effortless. His arms are flailed up and out, his ruddy pink fingers balled into loose fists, also perfectly still, except for the occasional sound-asleep twitch.

He weighs nothing on my lap. I can keep him there, safe, content, by simply crossing one leg over the other, ankle to knee, forming a pseudo-cradle.  With my left hand I steady his head, absent-mindedly caressing his black, baby-thin, nearly Elvis-like hair, shiny and messy from last night’s sleep. With my right hand I hold open “Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.” I read for at least 40 minutes, uninterrupted, feeling guilty that I’m letting him nap so long in my warm, rocking lap. Aren’t babies supposed to get used to being put down in their cribs? Am I spoiling him?

I look at the clock. 11:08 a.m. I mentally check in on everyone else. My husband is probably handling some kind of situation or holding a meeting at his school. My friends would all be having lunch now—together around the big kidney-shaped tables we always clear of students’ folders and books and join together so all 8 or 9 or 12 of us can fit around them. I figure Beth is telling one of her stories or Carole is picking food out of her teeth or Joel is saying how upset he is that the girl got voted off “American Idol” last night or maybe John has just cursed and everyone else is shrieking, laughing, shocked and giddy that he let the F word slip.

It amazes me that they are all only a few miles away. The guilt comes back now: I should be blissful, home with my first baby. Finally, a baby.

Ben, 2005

I spent many, many hours rocking in this chair...

That's my name...in a REAL book! Launch Day for The HerStories Project Anthology

 

The four of us were stalking the UPS truck. I was totally trying to pretend it wasn't such a big deal.

 

But then my oldest turned the corner on his bike and yelled, "Mommy! Look!" and my youngest followed him on his drifter and announced, "It's the brown truck with the golden stripes!" 

 

The book arrived and I opened it up and turned to page 17, and I couldn't pretend anymore.

 

This was a very big deal.

 

I was giddy.

 

High.

 

There was my essay: "The More The Merrier."

There was my full name: Elizabeth Suarez Aguerre.

A real byline.

 

Perhaps I was a bit biased, but I thought the book was beautiful: pink and purple, the exact shades of my teenage bedroom. The cover was simple, but appealing. Just heavy enough in my hands.

 

A real book.

 

I have been published before (nine times to be exact!). You'd think that would be more than enough. But although I am extremely proud of those projects, they do not hold my true voice. This book is the real writing Me. It is the style and genre of writing that I have dreamed about being published in for as long as I can remember.

 

My essay sits there, sharing space with 49 other amazing women writers, and I am honored. These amazing editors, Stephanie Sprenger and Jessica Smock, found my words, my piece, and thought it was good enough to be in this anthology on women's friendships. Thank you.

 

After showing the book to my boys ("Look, that's Mommy's name!"), Hubby and I toasted with a bottle of champagne. I carried it around the rest of the afternoon, under my arm, crystal flute in hand. After this experience, after feeling this feeling, I can no longer deny that I. Want. This.

 

This byline...this book...this opportunity has lit a fire under my ass. I can no longer pretend that my writing doesn't matter.

 



That's ME!!!!

To buy the book, click HERE or on the book's Amazon link at the top right corner of the page (pretty please?).

Learn more about the book, how it all started, the editors, and the rest of the awesome women writers featured at The HerStories Project. And please help us spread the word....tell your friends and family about it. The book really is a frickin' awesome collection of essays on "the joy, pain, and power of female friendship!"

I am a writer

I don't write for an audience.
I write for Me.

That's what I tell myself, anyways. And, for the most part, it's true.


I've been a writer for as long as I can remember.

That sentence, there, is hard for me to form:
I have been a writer for as long as I can remember.

Usually, it's more along the lines of:
I love to write...or...I have always loved writing...or...I wanted to be a writer when I was a kid...or, my favorite disclaimer of my artistic ability: Yes, I've had several books published, but that doesn't really count, because they were educational books, so I'm not really a writer, I just love to write.

"But ultimately, a writer is someone who writes," according to Dani Shapiro, author of Still Writing: The Perils and Pleasures of a Creative Life.

And write, I do.

All the time and everywhere and for as long as I can remember: scribbled sentences on coffee shop napkins, diaries and journals and notebooks filled to the margins, pages and pages of typed up "chapter books" on my sister's typewriter when I was eleven, love letters, hate letters, poems filled with angst and dripping in narcissism, musings and essays and blog posts...

I write.

Always have.

And for the first time in my life, I am just starting to realize that I no longer want to clean that up, or tack a disclaimer onto it, or apologize for it, or explain it. It's a very, very big part of who I am. It's the one thing I found all on my own, when I was very little, and figured out that not only could I do it pretty well, but I loved doing it, and even more consequential: I needed to do it.

It's because of this need--this internal thing--that I write for myself. I write because I have to. I write because when some thought starts pinging around inside my head, I can't get it out until I put it to paper (or, in this case, screen). So yes, I was being truthful when I said: I don't write for an audience. I write for myself.

But I never said it didn't matter if someone else reads it, or says it's good, or tells me I moved her or made her laugh or made her feel relief. I write for myself, but when someone is out there and notices it, well then...it makes the rapture of having written something all the more...rapturous.

That's why when Stephanie Sprenger and Jessica Smock of The HerStories Project contacted me and asked if they could include one of my pieces in their upcoming anthology, it was a really, really big deal. I don't think I realized, in fact, how much I actually cared if there really was an audience out there until this happened. I keep saying how "honored" I am to be included amongst these 50 contributing writers for this project, but I feel like it sounds so cliché. Everyone says I'm honored, all the time. But I am. I am honored.

It is a honor.

...An honor that they found me, that somehow out there in the blogosphere, someone read my words and thought they were good enough and important enough and relevant enough to include in this project.

I wrote the essay that will be included in the anthology for Me. I wrote it because, at the time, I needed to. I wrote it because I'm a writer. But it sure is nice when someone else is sitting out there, in the audience, listening and applauding.

*********************************************************************************

"The HerStories Project: Women Explore the Joy, Pain, and Power of Female Friendship is a collection of essays from over 50 women writers, encompassing tales from the sandbox to the inbox."
All the info on the book can be found here.  Read some of the early reviews, find out how this project got started, and of course, look for li'l ol' me on the "Contributor" tab. And then, make sure you sign up for updates...you'll receive all the information on the book's upcoming release, as well as sneak peeks and discount information.

Exhaustion: How am I supposed to write when my brain is fried?

Image from James Harris Gallery

So I've decided to participate in Just Write Tuesdays, although I'm thinking I might lose my audience if I am in the same frame of mind each Tuesday that I am tonight. The concept is you Just Write (duh, right?) without trying to over-analyze or edit yourself too much. It's pretty open: I can describe what I'm experiencing around me, a recent situation, whatever...but it should be pretty fresh (or at least recent) and "free."

Considering I'm feeling pretty wiped out right now, I'm not sure this is going to go off so well.

You know those days when you just feel Done? You're like, you can't go any further. You can't clean up one more dirty dish. You can't put away one more piece of clean laundry. You can't contribute one more thing of any value to this earth in this moment? Yep, that's me. Right now.

I know...lucky you.

My day has been a whirlwind of the usual day-to-day stuff: students and children and meetings and grading and my pants don't fit and don't forget to buy bread and I don't feel like making a salad for tomorrow's lunch. And all day, I've wanted to come back Here. To write. To feel like I did Something Important. Something that makes me feel good, just because it's all mine.

But then Life happens.

Your kid develops a fever two days before you are leaving for a trip.
You have a major blow out with a major friend.
You realize that damned salad still has to be made or those damn pants will still refuse to fit.

And then you wonder: how the hell am I going to put anything Out There when you have nothing left?

Project Underblog's 31Days31Voices: Sometimes I Don't Like My Kid

Today I am honored (once again) to be the featured blogger at Project: Underblog, in celebration of 31 Days 31 Voices. After checking my post here, snoop around and read all the other wonderful voices being featured this month.

I chose to share a post that has obviously struck a chord with many readers out there, since I am still getting comments on it even now, a couple of years later. Apparently, lots of moms out there Google the phrase: I don't like my kid. That, apparently, is how they find me.

It was a post that, back then, was difficult for me to write, because I was still sorta new to this whole motherhood thing, and I wasn't sure if my son's behavior was my own fault. And, even more worrisome, I wasn't sure if it was normal to not like my own kid.

Fast forward to today, and not only have I learned that it is absolutely completely normal to not always like your own kid (sometimes you absolutely can't stand your own kid...that's normal, too), but I've also learned that it's not my fault...that parenting is not always an if-then sort of thing.

I've had so many women contact me via email and through comments to thank me for writing that post...to tell me that, because of my honesty, they felt better, relieved, understood, and not alone.

That, for me, was the main reason I started blogging back then: I needed to express what I was going through as a mother, and I needed to be honest. I couldn't take the Motherhood-is-all-rainbows-and-teddy-bears-and-warm-fuzzies. Sometimes it is. Most of the times, it's not. And I needed to talk about it. So go check it out. Read it for the first time, or, if you've been following me for a while, read it again. And while you're doing that, I'll be playing with my oldest son, Ben, who, luckily, today I like a whole damn lot. (But tomorrow might be another story...)

Guest writing at Project: Underblog

"Project UnderBlog is a place where bloggers are accepted based on the power of their words and not on the reach of their numbers – where they can be heard, promoted, and celebrated no matter their size. It is about celebrating the fierceness of the 'underblog.'"

I am honored to be "heard, promoted, and celebrated" today on Project: Underblog! Please go read one of my favorite posts here and celebrate the "underblog."

Where'd the writer go?

 

 

not sure what has happened

 

 

it's been the longest

I think

that I have not written

Here

since Here came to be

 

my friend called me out on it recently

 

Damn

 

I was sorta hoping

no one would notice

 

or maybe

 

I was hoping

everyone would

 

Lord knows there's plenty of stuff

to write about

 

there's so much

maybe

inside my head

 

that's the problem

 

is it?

really?

it's a problem when you have too much to say?

 

I think that might indicate

a Real Problem

 

cause

really

if I'm not coming to talk

Here

then where am I talking?

 

 

Things I've Been Doing Instead of Blogging: My Life, in Lists

1. Starting a new school year for my 1st grade little boy (I can't believe he's in 1st grade!)
2. Starting a new school year for my pre-k little boy (actual homework!)
3. Starting a new school year with my students (48 fourth-graders, to be exact)
4. Moving classrooms twice in a three-week period
5. Stressing about work and the general state of public education
6. Ignoring my broken computer
7. Trying not to stress about my broken computer
8. Having to face the reality that my computer is broken
9. "Writing" blog posts in my head
10. Stressing about the blog posts that are not making it into the blogosphere
11. Trying to lose the 8 pounds I gained over summer vacation
12. Realizing that as I approach 40, losing summer weight is not that easy
13. Waking up at 4:35 a.m. to make it to the gym (see #s 11 and 12)
14. Going to bed at 10:00 p.m. (see #13)
15. Entering the world of Soccer Mom (Soccer practices are how many times a week for a 6-year-old?!?)
16. Entering the world of tennis (how cute is a 4-year-old who actually asks to take "tennis classes"?)
17. Missing summer