On Writing, From the Mouths of Babes

This morning while I was making breakfast, my 11-year old, out of nowhere, said, "Mom, I just realized something."

"What did you realize?"

"You have two jobs. One as a mother, and one as an author."

I loved having him refer to me as an author!

"You're right," I said, "and the funny part is, I don't get paid for either job."

We talked about it for a minute, and decided I should make $400,000 for the motherhood job ($100K per kid), or the same amount as the President of the United States. For the other job, at this point I think I'd be happy with four figures. So maybe that will be my modest goal for 2009: to earn four figures as an author.

And lest I flag in this endeavor, I'll keep in mind another thing my 11-year old said to me recently. He had been working on one of those absurd book reports they assign in fifth grade--absurd because it was really an art project, one which required drawings of scenes and the main characters, and a five-line summary of the plot, which then had to be cut into pieces resembling a jigsaw puzzle. Projects like this drive my son (and me) insane, because though he loves books, he lacks dexterity and would be much better off just writing the damn report.

In any event, he spent hours on this project, emerging from his rooom periodically to issue progress reports. When he was done, he proudly presented me with the completed assignment and sighed loudly.

"Great job, honey!" I congratulated him.

"And you know the amazing part?" he asked.

"What?"

"This page used to be blank."

A light bulb went on in my stupid little brain. Well duh! I chided myself. All writing starts with a blank page. If I don't work on it, it stays blank. If I want the book done, as I profess, I have to work at it, just like my son did with his project. It's so simple. So why is it so damn hard?

The Blank Page

My desire to write has been going unfulfilled lately. It's my own fault, I realize this, and I am determined to address this problem. My excuse for not writing creatively is, as usual, I have too much other stuff to do. Take Thursday, for example. We normally get up around 6:00, get one kid off to school at 6:30, get another kid off to school at 7:00, get the last one off to school at 8:45. Between 7:00 and 8:45 I usually read the paper (online); check my email; take my turn at Facebook Scrabble; take a shower; sometimes do dishes and laundry. I suppose I could be using at least some of that time for writing, but the fact is Hubby is still home (reminding me to go to the bank, pay the taxes, do the office bills, make dinner reservations, or a hundred other things), as is the last kid, who wants to know what's for breakfast, what he should wear, if he can have a friend over after school. I don't mind these interruptions, as they are the stuff life is made of. But they are not conducive to creative writing.

Thursday was even less conducive to writing than usual. Thursday, owing to the single digit temperatures outside, there was a school delay. Meaning I did not have the house to myself until 11:00, at which time I made chicken salad and homemade cream of broccoli soup for lunch and did some dishes. By the time I did those two things, Hubby was home for lunch. And by the time he left, well, you get the picture. The rest of the afternoon was spent driving the kids to and fro, and by the time I got home, writing was just not in the cards.

I should to take a lesson from Stephen King. In his book On Writing, he talks about writing his first novel, Carrie, on a portable typewriter in his laundry room when he and his wife (and two small children) were dirt poor and he was working days as a college English teacher. Or maybe it was high school. In any event, if Stephen King can produce under much more trying, or at least diverting, circumstances than mine, I should be able to do the same. (Well, maybe not the same. We're talking about a guy who allegedly produces 10,000 words PER DAY. A guy with a wife to do all the stuff that I do.)

In any event, I'm writing this, as a warm-up to the serious writing to which I intend to return, right after MLK day. Did I mention that school was cancelled Friday so everyone was home all day? And thanks to MLK, no school on Monday either. But, to borrow a line, or at least a theme, from MLK himself, we shall overcome.

Another January, Another Resolution

Here it is January again, and I'm starting fresh. My resolutions haven't changed from the ones I made to myself last year: finish my book; get myself organized; figure out a way to pay my kids' college tuitions. I feel like if I could accomplish resolution number 2 (getting myself organized), the others will just fall into place. Even though I'm not sure how getting myself organized is going to help with the tuition bill. I think it all comes down to clutter: clutter in my house, clutter on my desk, clutter in my brain.

I've been staring at my little home office, trying to envision less stuff. What can I get rid of? And for the stuff I can't get rid of, where can I put it so it's not in my office? I did throw out several wastebaskets full of paper, mostly items marked "to do" whose deadlines expired before I ever had a chance to do them. Then I turned to the closet in the hallway, the one I use to store clothes that the older boys have grown out of and the younger ones haven't yet grown into. As I looked at the clothes, the ones hanging in the back caught my eye. Those did not belong to the boys. They were mostly from a previous incarnation of myself that I was saving for...what?

I pulled out a gorgeous green suit with a scooped neckline and bright dabs of colors all over it in the shapes of flowers. I bought this little number at Saks for a few hundred dollars back when I was flush with cash as a downtown securities lawyer, in...oh God, that was in 1991. I know this because I bought this suit to wear to my sister's wedding, and I looked all curvy in it because I was nursing my 6-week old baby, who is now on the cusp of turning 18. That suit is 18 years old.

Just for grins I put it on. The jacket still fits, but the skirt? No, no, no. I would need several lengths of rope to bridge the space between the button and the buttonhole. And it has shoulderpads. Need I say more?

Next was a navy wool gabardine suit. It has a short very form fitting skirt and a fitted jacket with a single brushed gold button, no lapels, and...shoulderpads. And what's this? The tag is cut out of the suit, which can only mean one thing: I bought this sucker at Loehmann's, in Monroeville, when we lived in Squirrel Hill. I haven't lived in Squirrel Hill since 1993, and Loehmann's closed even before that. Maybe I'm a glutton for self-flagellation but I wanted to try it on. The tag said size 6, and now everything I buy is size 4, so even if I'm not as svelte as I once was, surely the size 6 of yesteryear is approximately equal to the size 4 of 2009. But alas, today's size 4 is more like size 8 used to be. Why? How the hell do I know? Even if it did fit, I can foresee no occasion for which I would need a navy gabardine power suit with shoulderpads. This one goes into the pile with the aforementioned green suit.

And there was the black gabardine floor-length skirt with the slit in the back, and the matching black scoop neck shell that I bought for a firm formal, again back with I was lawyering. Again, the tags were cut out, signaling another Loehmann's acquisition. I was post-partem then too, which explains the elastic waist on the skirt. I tried it on. The early '90s were not being kind to me. Into the pile it went.

Next was a most-treasured blouse, ivory silk organza, with a big square satin collar, plunging neckline, puffy sleeves and pearl buttons. This unique garment even has a lace panty sewn into it so you never come untucked. I remember buying this gem at Loehmann's in Boca Raton, which had much better quality stuff than anything you could find in Monroeville. This one had no tags at all, giving it the feel of a one-of-a -kind find. I did wear this a few times, over ten years ago, and felt all patrician in it. Ah, but like a white orchid craving water, the creamy ivory hues of lady organza have yellowed, and it can be worn no more.

The next one, well, can you say 'hideous'? It's another navy wool gabardine number (what was up with all the gabardine?), again size 6, but this time it's a pantsuit, labelled Jones New York. The jacket is so long and form-fitting, it covers the butt, and has navy piping along the lapel, giving the ensemble a nautical air. The jacket actually still fits me. The pants, though, oh God, the pants! They are wide-legged and high fitting up around the ribs. I swear to you, this was once fashionable. Buttoning the trousers is no longer possible (I tried it on, God help me). But in my past life, yes. I remember wearing this suit, with navy patent-leather flats, not long after I began my solo law practice in 1992. I remember feeling stylish. I don't remember feeling delusional, but when you have a tiny figure, you can get away with a lot. But no longer. This get-up is, in two words, a fashion travesty.

Next was the unstructured linen blazer, in ecru, from Talbots. Size 6, and in such great condition, I could still wear it. That is if I wanted to look like a scientist. All this thing is missing is the nametag and stethoscope. Why did I buy it? Because I liked linen and I was inspired by non-colors? I don't know, but it is one less item in my closet.

Last but not least was another wool suit, in black, with a big wide black belt. It looks like it came from a funeral in another century. Now that I think of it, it did come from another century, but I don't recall it being worn to any funerals. I found some of my old business cards in the pocket, which had my firm's phone number before they changed the area code. In 1994. I didn't bother to try it on.

There are two things in that closet that I know I will never wear again, but I'm keeping them just the same. One is a sleeveless red polka-dot balloon dress that I bought in 1988 to wear to my friend's wedding. It has little white bows around the bottom. It is the most fun item of clothing I have ever owned, and I got pregnant with my first son the night I wore it. It should be placed in a museum commemorating my life.

The second item that will never see the inside of a Goodwill store is my kilt. I love that thing. It's a size 6, in blue and green plaid of course, that my Mom gave me when I went off to college. It has a giant safety pin adorning the flap. I probably wore it a hundred times between the ages of 18 and 25. Maybe two hundred times. I first saw my husband in the law library when I was wearing it, and I believe it played a critical role in attracting him to me. He was the bee, and my kilt was the honey. When my college-age son was in 9th grade, he wore it for Halloween, dressed as Martha Stewart (with a knife plunged in his chest). The kilt stays.

So I've made some small progress on the getting organized resolution. I've also made a little progress on the tuition problem, by cancelling the NYTimes delivery on Sundays. I will miss it, but it saves me $300 a year. As for the book, just call me Scarlett O'Hara: I won't think about that today. I'll think about that tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day!