Writing for Five Minutes

So this is one of those times when I feel like I don’t have time to write because I’m on my way somewhere in half an hour. But I must remember the mantra: just write for five minutes. That’s what my friend and fellow wannabe writer Ann always tells me. So here I sit, wondering what I can write about in just five minutes. I know it’s easy to write for five minutes. I’m doing it now. Just stream of consciousness. So why don’t I do it more often? All those days when I don’t write anything, and don’t even try to write anything, because I feel like I don’t have time to write.

I think I know what it is. I don’t feel like I can write anything good in five minutes. Nothing worth reading. No time for pithiness. No time for editing. And my book? I can’t work on that in five minutes, and that’s what I really want to be working on. I’ve told a zillion people I’m working on a book. Jon has told at least that many people I’m working on a book. So now I’ve got all this pressure to finish it.

Actually, the pressure I’ve imposed on myself by telling people I’m writing a book is part of my grand strategy to get it done. If I know people know about it, and I know people will ask me about it whenever I see them next, I have a goal to make concrete progress before I see them again. So when I do see them again and they ask, “How’s your book?” I won’t have to say (a) I was just kidding, I’m not writing a book, or (b) what book?, or (c) I haven’t touched a keyboard in a year, or (d) you must be confusing me with someone else. Instead, I want to be able to say, (a) I finished the first draft, it stinks but I’m editing like mad, or (b) it’s great! It needs some work still, but I’m going to the Maui Writers’ Conference in 2008 to shop it around, or (c) my agent says there’s a bidding war so I’m optimistic.

My five minutes is up. Gotta run.

Thanks Natalie Goldberg

Thank heavens for Natalie Goldberg. Whenever I feel stymied about my writing, I turn to her marvelous book Writing Down the Bones, for writing ideas or just for inspiration. She understands me. So well, in fact, that I might wonder if she's been following me around these past few years.

Take today for example. I'm feeling all guilty and annoyed at myself for not writing these past few weeks (I did write a little, but a pitifully small amount) and I have only a few minutes before I have to go pick up the kids. But I tell myself, just write for five minutes and you'll be happy.

For a quick jump-start, I pick up Natalie and turn to a page I folded back a few months ago. She's talking about writing spaces, and how people get obsessed over their writing space and try to make it perfect and spend all this time redecorating when all they really need is a comfy chair and a pen. She talks about the disaster area that constitutes a good writing space and it sounds suspiciously like my own. Papers all over the floor. Unanswered mail. A 1/2 cup of coffee from three days ago. A broken watch even! (For those uninitiated into the wisdom of Natalie Goldberg, she describes a writing space with a watch with a broken second hand lying on the floor. The watch in my writing space doesn't run at all, and the velcro on the wristband doesn't stick.)

Truly, one of the things that hangs me up is that I can barely walk in the room where I want to write. The Wreck of the Hesperus, my mother would call it. But I am redeemed by Natalie. She says the following: "A little apparent disorder is an indication of the fertility of the mind and someone that is actively creating. A perfect studio has always told me that the person is afraid of his own mind and is reflecting in his outward space an inward need for control. Creativity is just the opposite: it is a loss of control."

Take that!, all you perfect suburban housewives with your perfectly made beds and no clutter on your kitchen counters! I'm way too creative to bother with a few dishes and a pile of unwashed socks!

So thanks Natalie Goldberg, for coming to my rescue today. I did my writing and my blogging, and now I can tend to the more mundane but necessary tasks that await.

I Need a Vacation

I’ve been stressing out lately. True, it’s Suburbia stress, but nonetheless. Not that anything really terrible has happened. It's just that I like balance. Equilibrium. Smooth waters. Picture me as that blindfolded lady who holds the scales of justice. Both sides should be sort of even. Let's just say that in May, someone piled a bunch of rocks on one side while the other side remained relatively unburdened with feathers. The lady nearly toppled over the cliff.

I don’t intend to whine. And believe me, I am enormously thankful for the many blessings which have been bestowed upon me. However, even those of us who have nothing really to complain about sometimes need a vacation. To restore the equilibrium.

Here’s a sampling of life in Suburbia. Just a sampling mind you:

Mother’s Day weekend: drive 5 hours to Cinci to watch offspring in crew race. The event he was in lasted approximately two minutes. Drive five hours back to Suburbia to discover husband in pain from two sprained wrists, incurred when weight machine at health club malfunctioned. Husband unable to procure dinner for the mother of his four sons on Mother’s Day. House of Chen to the rescue. I self-indulgently order garlic eggplant, a luscious concoction which appeals to no one but me.

May 16: #2 son’s confirmation. Attend lovely Shabbat service and dinner, listen to 16 teens’ speeches on What Being Jewish Means To Me. #1 son is chastised during service for writing with a pen on Shabbat. He was writing his life’s goals on an envelope he found in my purse. Among his goals: Abolish PennDOT. Excellent Oneg.

May 18: My birthday. I’m 47. Middle aged. How can this be? Inside I’m just 25, albeit with extra wisdom. We go to dinner to the Grand Concourse, a favorite restaurant. The worst service ever. Waiter ignores us even though he has full knowledge of the significance of the occasion. Husband grumbles throughout the meal. No one in my family picks up the phone to call me so this day is not shaping up well. Thankfully in-laws come to the rescue, most of them calling and/or emailing best wishes.

May 19: Attend lovely lunch at brother’s house in honor of nephew’s confirmation. Everyone sheepishly apologizes for failing to acknowledge birthday. Father comes through big-time with bottle of 1960 (my birth year) Chateau D’Ychem. I’ll drink it in 3 years, on May 18.

May 29: Our 19^th wedding anniversary. Celebrate by attending son’s crew banquet. Five minutes before leaving receive phone call saying “someone” screwed up and banquet hall is not available. Instead for $75 we are treated to pizza and cake at crew member’s church. How a 10-person banquet committee can fail to confirm with banquet hall prior to event is left to the imagination.

May 30: Receive self-congratulatory email from members of banquet committee thanking members of banquet committee for pulling off the event despite last minute challenges. No mea culpa is proferred.

May 31: 4:30 p.m. Son #3 limps home. Responds to questions of “what happened” with “I fell. I’m fine.”

May 31: 7:00 p.m. Son screaming and crying. In unbearable pain and unable to move. Parental attempts to medicate (ibuprofen, ice and port combo) fail to provide relief.

May 31: 8:00 p.m. Call orthopedic surgeon a/k/a my brother, who diagnoses problem on the phone. “That’s painful,” he says. “You might want to take him to the ER.”

May 31: 9:00 p.m. Receive call from orthopedic surgeon a/k/a my other brother, who expresses concern about possibility of more serious injury. Recommends X-ray ASAP. Injured son seems to be falling asleep. Not sure if we should wake him.

May 31 9:02 p.m. Son is screaming in pain. Multiple calls to pediatrician are met with “What kind of insurance do you have?”

May 31 9:30 p.m. Take son to local ER. Diagnosis: avulsion fracture. “Those are painful,” says the ER doc. Yes, we sort of noticed. Takes only 5 hours to diagnose what my brother diagnosed by phone in 5 minutes. Multiple drugs are prescribed.

June 3: Son still writhing in pain. Calls to doctor are returned by resident posing as answering service, reporting that doctor says to call him in the office on Monday. I am outraged and tell resident a/k/a answering service to tell the doctor he is not God and I expect him to call me. (Doctor does later call; alleges confusion over message I received and says it was resident, not answering service. Frustration and annoyance on all sides.)

June 3: Orthopedic surgeon (a/k/a another brother) volunteers to come from his home 50 miles away to check on injured offspring. His excellent bedside manner reassures the patient, who relaxes enough to learn to use his crutches. I am thankful we have doctors in the family. I wonder how your average Joe manages to navigate the health care system without a personal advocate.

May 31-June 6: Son sleeps in Laz-Y-Boy, gets around on crutches, misses last week of school and Kennywood field trip. He doesn’t complain. He’s a trooper and a most excellent patient.

June 3: Birthday bowling party for son #4, who is turning 10. Pizza, cake and gift bags for 8 school friends. Pretty easy, not very stressful, except when injured son slips when crutches make contact with wet bathroom floor.

June 6: Son #4 turns 10. He’s happy, and so are we.

June 7: Last day of school. In-laws arrive for graduation of #1 son, scheduled for June 8.

June 8: 10:00 a.m. Dinner is planned for 11 people, including both sets of grandparents, in honor of son’s graduation. Early weather reports are ominous. I start to worry about my parents driving from their home 50 miles away.

June 8: 3:00 p.m. Skies are darkening. Graduation might be cancelled. Reports of tornadoes and golf-ball size hail from west of us, where the grandparents live. I tell them not to come.

June 8: 5:00 p.m. Graduation is postponed to Saturday due to torrential downpours and lightning. Dinner still nice, notwithstanding absence of other grandparents.

June 9: 10:00 a.m. Son graduates from high school. Weather is glorious. Due to ambulatory problems of grandmother and #3 son, we sit in VIP section on field reserved for handicapped. Excellent viewing! I become the mother of high school graduate. In-laws return to New Jersey.

June 9: 12:00 p.m. I lecture #1 son about dangers of being new high school graduate, feeling so good and immortal. I tell him I love him. I tell him not to drive too fast. He says he hears me.

June 13: Son #2 goes to camp for staff training two hours north.

June 18: Pick up Son #2 from camp.

Whew. Busy couple of weeks. I haven’t even mentioned the numerous doctors’ appointments and baseball games (son #4). At this point I just have to plan #1’s graduation party (for 50-100 people), take #2 for his driving (permit) test, and plan our summer vacation (to commence June 22) and our New York trip (while kids are at camp), all in the space of 3 days. I have bills to pay, laundry to do, events to organize, groceries to shop for, house to manage, etc….all those things that go unnoticed (this is the part where I whine), and my adoring husband keeps bringing home legal work for me. He forgets that I officially retired when #4 was born ten years ago but he remains in denial.

June 19: I’m on autopilot, racing around doing laundry, chopping vegetables, making dinner, figuring out table arrangements, etc etc etc to get it all done. Husband is laying on the bed reading a book. I reach my limit. I yell and scream and tell him I’m never doing any legal work again, ever. I hand him a big stack of minute books and client files. “Here!” I say. “And don’t bring me any more!”

June 20: Hubby takes most of the day off and helps get ready for the party. Hubby takes stack of minute books away and does not argue. Party is fun. Son #1 is happy.

June 22: We (meaning my boys and me…hubby flies down later. He has to keep bringing home he bacon for us) drive to Naples Florida, for a much needed 2 weeks of R&R. We have no special plans. Just beach and sleep.