How to Write by Not Writing

Okay, so, I'm working on a new novel at the moment because my previous three were such blockbuster hits and the world can't get enough of me. You asked for a fourth novel world (actually, just my mom) and now you're going to get it.

The problem is . . . I don't especially want to write it. I just want it to be written. I also don't want to cook supper tonight. I just want it to be cooked. And in case you're wondering, no, I don't want to go to Pilates tomorrow. I just want to magically have sculpted arms and a flat belly.

Alas, life is not that simple.

I know what you're thinking—all that, "the joy is in the doing," crap and "peace can be found in simple things." I maybe could get behind that, but it's graduation season and I am over motivational speeches for a while. Check me in August and see how I feel. Right now, if I read another post on Facebook that summarizes Oh the Places You Will Go, I'm going to vomit.

So tonight, First Son was at soccer tryouts with Husband, and Second Son and Daughter were immersed in TV (don't worry, it was educational!), so I thought I would tackle the novel that doesn't want to be written.

I wrote a few paragraphs of my characters walking around, scratching their butts, and complaining about the weather just because I felt like I needed to do SOMETHING with these people I've created. I've written about a hundred pages and I was starting to feel like I left them all hanging off a cliff with the promise that I would come back at a later date and rescue SOME of them, not sure who just yet.

I felt sick with myself and my boring pages and I slammed the laptop shut (don't tell Husband) and decided that I was done writing. Not only was I done writing this novel, but I was done writing in general. Hopefully my kids won't need any more sick notes for school, because I'm not going to write them! They will have to have unexcused absences, because I HATE writing and I'm never, ever writing another word for as long as I live!

I go through this from time to time. I know, it's disgusting. Usually, what gets me out of it is physical activity of some sort, but unfortunately, I decided last week that I was done with running. Not only was I done with running for exercise, but I was done with running in general. In fact, if I am ever chased by a big man with a knife, he's going to have no problem catching me because I HATE running and I'm never, ever running for as long as I live!

So, I went into the living room and cuddled with Second Son who tries to pretend to be a big tough seven-year-old, but is really a big soft teddy bear who loves his Mommy. I held him and watched Sesame Street, breathing in, breathing out, doing one of the things that I was truly meant to do in this life—love my children. Who cared if I was stuck on a scene? Who cared if every word I typed was dull? What did that matter? It was words, pixels, maybe ten people would read it if I was lucky. Second Son would touch countless lives (Hopefully not with his fists—he can be a rowdy little thing).

An image came to my mind unbidden—two of my characters, hanging on so tight to that cliff where I left them, in a tender moment. The scene presented itself fully formed, dialogue and punctuation already in place. I actually cried as I wrote it like Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone.

Peace can be found in simple things. Huh.

Parenting and Staying Sane All at the Same Time

Note: My favorite part about being a writer is having someone respond to something I wrote and say, "Yes! Me too!" It's comforting to know that others feel or have gone through the same things as you. I often have the feeling that I am the only person who has ever experienced certain things in my life—a terrible, isolating feeling. I'm sharing this story (at the encouragement of a friend) in hopes that it may help others (and I know there are lots out there) who have gone through similar circumstances.

I was completely prepared to be a mother.

I was going to be the best mother any child ever had.

What a lucky kid this baby was going to be.

I mean, you know, I had worked in day cares and church nurseries since I was fifteen. I babysat so much in high school that it was almost a full time job for me. And parents loved me. I was in high demand. And let's not forget the fact that I have a minor in early-childhood education and was completely devoted to being a teacher until I hit the age of twenty-two and developed a bad case of the Who-Am-I's.

That being said, there are two things that motherhood has taught me:

1. Reality's a funny little guy.
   
2. God uses everything to bring us closer to him.
   

First son was from the beginning . . . difficult. At the age of two, he was extremely high energy—but he was a boy and he was two. At the age of three, he was impossible to potty train—but he was a boy and he was three. At the age of four, his preschool teacher would call me in so that I could, literally, scrape him up off the floor—but he was a boy and he was four. At the age of five, we received weekly notes about his inability to focus—but he was a boy and he was five. At the age of six, his teacher called me in and asked if I thought about having him tested for ADD—but he was a boy and he was six. At the age of seven, his teacher called me in and asked if I thought about having him tested for ADD—but he was a boy and he was seven. At the age of eight, his teacher called me in and asked if I thought about having him tested for ADD—but . . . but . . . but . . .

So . . . something's clearly amiss.

But, I don't believe in giving children serious mind-altering drugs. I just don't. I've never believed in it and I never will. Fortunately for me, I made a wise decision at the tender age of twenty-three. It frightens me now that I made this decision at such a young age when I was quite a different person from the one I am now, but I made it nonetheless, thanks to God—I married Husband.

Though I have core beliefs that I have held for my entire adult life and that I feel certain I will hold for the remainder of my life, I must admit that when it comes to some things, I am easily swayed. When I would spend the entire evening every school night helping my child with homework that should take an hour, I was tempted to give him drugs. When I would spend night after night teaching First Son (who can build complicated legos by himself) the difference between a verb and a noun, I was tempted to give him drugs. When my expectations for honor roll grades fell to hopes of As, Bs, and Cs, and then to hopes of just-please-for-the-love-of-God-don't-fail, I was tempted to give him drugs. When teachers called me in and spoke of the miraculous turn-arounds that they witnessed in medicated children with First Son's condition, I was tempted to give him drugs. And, honestly, the only reason I didn't was because Husband wouldn't hear of it.

Let me say up front that I do not judge anyone who has decided to medicate their children. I disagree with it, but I do not judge it. A few different life decisions on my part and I would have almost certainly been one of those people—so, no judgment.

I'll admit that Husband's uncompromising stance against medicating First Son angered me at first. After all, I was the one taking on the full burden of homework, conferences with teachers, and pressure to do something. But really, it was my pride that was hurt. I always imagined that my children would be like me and that school and good grades would be of the utmost importance to them. And here was my first child, not giving a lick about bad grades or good grades, indeed acting as if he didn't even realize that he was being graded in the first place. Is there a pill that will make him care about how bad he's making me look? Is there a pill for this?

Yes, there is a pill for this. There is also a pill for people who feel that they are not outgoing enough. There is a pill for those who are not as happy as they would like to be. There is a pill for an achy head. A pill for food that won't digest just right. A pill for sore muscles after a hard workout. A pill for someone who wants to overindulge but doesn't want to be fat. Can't go to sleep at night? Take a pill. Can't wake up in the morning? Take a pill. "Why be uncomfortable?" the medical community asks us, "when you can be medicated."

What is our aim in all this medication? Are we trying to create a uniform society in which we all act and feel the same? I, for one, have struggled with acute shyness my entire life. In my youth, if I were offered a pill that would make me less socially awkward, I would have jumped at it—anything to not feel so different. Now, though I don't embrace my shyness like I should, I see that it has protected me in many ways and brought me to this place of peace and contentment in which I find myself at this time in my life.

I thank God for this, in helping me to see that He loves me and accepts me for what I am and that it doesn't matter that the world views shyness as undesirable because it is impossible to please the world, but so easy to please God, by merely loving and accepting Him in return.

I had to remember all of this in regards to First Son. No, he will never be a straight-A student. No, he is not going to cry when he is sick and has to miss a school day like I did. No, he will never sit perfectly still in his desk. No, he will not need someone to help him carry his certificates home on Awards Day. No, he is not me. He's just him. And that's okay. In fact, it's amazing, because that's who God wants him to be.

Once I was able to accept First Son, it was easier to help him. Easier—not easy. Husband and I started by taking away all video games and almost all television, except for Saturday morning because we quite like a sleep-in on Saturday morning and with three kids that is impossible without the television (so sue us!). Any kid, not just one who has trouble focusing, should not be watching too much TV or playing too many video games in the first place. After all, these things aren't life. These are things that are used to check out of life. Why do we want our children checking out of life?

Husband and I then, as John Rosemond suggests in his many wonderful books on raising children, tried to discipline First Son with an old-fashioned approach. In other words, not concerning ourselves with his "self-esteem" and instead concerning ourselves with some basic things—you are the child, I am the parent, I make the decisions, you accept them, the same goes for all adults in your life, end of discussion. This isn't as simple as it sounds. Husband and I had become lazy with our parenting. It's easier and more fun to be your kid's friend instead of his parent. But that's not our job. It's a serious business raising kids and we had stopped taking it seriously.

Husband and I don't pride ourselves on our patience, but we knew that it would be impossible to make some much needed changes in First Son without patience. We made patience a priority. In addition to being more patient, we tried to be more understanding of First Son without feeling sorry for him, and to make sure that he was accountable for his actions.

I also forced myself to make him responsible for himself. Instead of checking over homework and making sure it was all completed and sitting neatly in his folder. I would ask, "Do you have everything you need for tomorrow?" And when he said yes, even though I could clearly see his multiplication problems sitting on his desk, I didn't point it out. He would have to take the consequence.

So, he started taking the consequences. Progress reports came out right before Christmas break and First Son's grades were so appalling that I could barely look at them and wanted, like an ostrich, to bury my head in the sand and sing "La, la, la, la, la, la" in the hopes that I could forget all about them. But forget about them, I could not.

We had two problems—First Son was making bad grades and First Son didn't care that he was making bad grades. Bad grades are unacceptable. They just are. So, Christmas break wasn't all joys and laughter for First Son. While his brother and sister were playing with friends and new toys, First Son was reading books and writing book reports on them and editing book reports and re-writing them and completing worksheets and reading more and crying about it the whole time.

A couple of weeks ago, his teacher called me crying too, saying that she has seen the most remarkable difference in him and that he is now taking his time with tests and reading over things carefully and he made A's on three tests! I cried with her and thanked her for her part and she said the most perfect thing that a teacher can say, "It's not me, but God."

It's not me, but God. God gives us everything we need to be parents. Dr. Drames is an angel when I need antibiotics for a bad case of strep throat, but I don't need her to help me parent. It's not me, but God. We know what to do, we know it in our heart and in our head, we just let other people make us doubt. It's not me, but God. Like I could even do it myself. Why would I even want to try?

I'm not ready to start celebrating our victory, yet. I'm not even ready to check out the fourth-grade-hall yet. But still, I finally have something that I didn't have before—hope. This hasn't happened overnight and I think, like all things that are worthwhile, it will still be a difficult road. But there are two things that I know to be true—with God, we can do it and I'm sick of Husband always being right about everything.

Twenty Ways I Can Tell Husband is Out of Town

1. First son "ran out" of clean underwear.
   
2. Instead of washing dirty underwear, I decided First Son needed new underwear.
   
3. The guy at the McDonald's drive-in rolled his eyes at me today and muttered, "You again."
   
4. The bug that I keep feeling crawling on me is really just my unshaven leg hair.
   
5. Eight o'clock in the morning feels like the crack of dawn.
   
6. I only run the dishwasher once a week.
   
7. The kids are begging me to feed them a home-cooked meal.
   
8. I can't remember which bottle is shampoo and which one is conditioner.
   
9. I'm an expert trash compacter, hoping that it can wait until Husband gets home until it has to be taken all the way outside to the big trash can.
   
10. I'm an expert at fooling First and Second Son, telling them: "Oh, look at the cute little spider. He's so sweet. Okay. Now smush it for me."
    
11. I've discovered what my actual for-real-life toenails look like after all the toe nail polish has flaked off.
    
12. Where do I keep the vacuum cleaner again?
    
13. The oven is a useful storage device.
    
14. What's the point in making beds and changing out of pajamas when at the end of the day I'm just going to put on pajamas and get back in the bed?
    
15. Soap? What is this substance of which you speak?
    
16. I'm caught up on all my TV shows.
    
17. My hair straightener is getting a nice long vacation.
    
18. I've forgotten how to work zippers and buttons and snaps. If it's not drawstring, it ain't goin' on these hips.
    
19. Wow! These bound pages of paper with titles on them that are sitting on my bookshelf can actually be read and enjoyed and read again??? What a marvelous invention!
    
20. Did you know that you could use a cell phone for actually talking to another person who is far away from you? Me neither!
    

Is it September Yet?

Twenty ways I can tell my kids are out of school for the summer:

1. At any given time, two out of three of my toilets are stopped up.

2. At any given time, two out of three of my children need me to do something for them.

3. When alone, I find myself pondering the mystical questions of the universe like: Who was the first Jedi Knight and will anyone ever invent a real lightsaber?

4. Justin Beiber is starting to grow on me.

5. The house mysteriously empties of food as soon as I bring it in.

6. The words, "I'm hungry" have become background noise that don't even register with me, just as one does not hear the air conditioner running or people breathing because these are sounds that are ever present.

7. Ditto with the words, "Can I play the Wii?"

8. Nap time has lost all meaning.

9. Bed time has lost all meaning.

10. A giant tub of cheesy puffs seems like a wise purchase.

11. Going to the gym is the most relaxing part of my day.

12. A piercing scream heard on the other side of the house will only make me roll my eyes and yell, "KNOCK IT OFF!"

13. I find myself gazing at my beloved children and wondering . . . when in God's name did I last bathe you???

14. Pizza and cheesy puffs seem like a good, nutritious choice for lunch.

15. Cereal and cheesy puffs seem like a good, nutritious choice for breakfast.

16. I'm starting to think the orange, cheesy puff stains on the carpet give the living room a certain flair.

17. I'm thinking of having my name legally changed to Mommy-Watch-This.

18. I'm excited when the kids go to bed early because now I can finally . . . iron.

19. Okay, so . . . Friday morning I decided to sneak out real quick to the fenced backyard to put a final coat of paint on the table I'm refinishing and thought it would be silly to change out of my shorty pj shorts and itty tank since I was just going to be inside my privacy fence for fifteen minutes . . . to paint, you know. To make a long story short, I spent the better part of the morning locked in my backyard, too embarassed to go around front because of my lack of appropriate cul-de-sac living attire. Second son has a sick sense of humor.

20. I am getting WAY more kisses and hugs than any human being could possible deserve on a near constant basis. I'm considering home schooling.

It’s a Tybee Island Thing . . .

You know how when you drive over the Lazaretto Creek Bridge and you curse the guardrails that are there for some crazy reason like protecting your life or something because they block your view of the Cockspur Lighthouse and then when you reach the top of the bridge and you see the lighthouse, especially at sunset when it looks all pretty and romantic and stuff and you think about the waving girl who used to help her brother operate the lighthouse and then you almost hit an oncoming car that is doing something really stupid, like leaving the island? . . . yeah, I love that.

As soon as I hit the Lazaretto, my blood starts pulsating, my heart beats faster, maybe I cry (Hey, I'm an emotional chick!) because it just feels right.

I've always been a big fan of Breakfast at Tiffany's. I like what Ms. Golightly says about wanting a place where she and things go together. A place that feels right. I'm not sure, because I'm an Army brat who married a Coastie (i.e. I move around a lot), but I think that she means home.

Where is home? Apparently, there's no place like it. Apparently, some people find that their greatest desire is to get back to it. Maybe we all do.

Home can be anywhere.

When you're like me and you have never been able to choose where you live, then you're lucky because you can choose the place that you call home.

The place I choose is a piece of land set apart from the world, isolated by the cut of the Atlantic Ocean. A place that is foreign, yet familiar. A place that is insensible, yet rational. A place that is beautiful, yet disquieting. A place where anyone and no one can belong.

Just remember, when you're leaving the island and crossing the bridge—easing stepping and watch out for oncoming traffic, 'cause you never know when I'll be coming home.

Life is What Happens

A brief pause while I reflect on something serious . . .

This past week, my daughter turned four. This seems ordinary in and of itself, but it struck me out of the blue what this actually means. She's the youngest of my children and her leaving behind the three-and-under stage is so significant that I can't quite get my head around it.

I am no longer that woman.

I see that woman at the grocery store and at the gym and at the park and at the mall and I recognize her the way you recognize a picture of yourself from your old high school yearbook—you can't quite believe that it used to be you.

But it did use to be me pushing the shopping cart with the baby carrier sitting so precariously atop it (Am I the only one who feared it would topple?), and then with the next baby in the snuggie and the toddler in the shopping cart, me feeding him gummies, praying that they would last until my shopping was complete, and then, finally, with the next baby in the snuggie and the two toddlers fighting over the gummies in the gigantic shopping cart that was shaped like a fire truck and impossible to navigate through the narrow aisles.

That used to be me . . . but, suddenly and strangely, not anymore.

While it's happening, it seems like it will never end. You know somewhere in your head that one day you will not consider sleeping two hours in a row a triumph. You know that one day you won't freak out because you just used the last diaper. You know that one day you won't watch with fearful anticipation as your toddler eats one . . . now two . . . now three bites of vegetables, thank God. You know that one day you won't spend each evening draped over a bathtub, trying to keep shampoo out of sensitive eyes. You know that one day this will all be a distant memory. Good grief, everyone tells you that it goes by too quick—everyone tells you this, but you never quite believe them . . . until it actually does go by too quick.

I don't exactly miss it.

I rather like the fact that I can go to a store without having to first pack a suitcase. I like the fact that I can tell my kids jokes that they get and they can tell me jokes that make no sense whatsoever. I like the fact that they can show kindness and compassion and empathy. I like the fact that I can outright refuse to get out of bed before nine o'clock on a Sunday.

But still . . . it makes me a little uneasy. It's like my daughter turning four is a big flashing light telling me not only that my children's toddler days are over, but also that my youth is over. Of course I knew this in theory. I am thirty-three and have been married for ten years and though I can occasionally plaster on enough make-up to convince a nervous and near-sighted waiter to card me, I don't actually resemble someone who could be mistaken for twenty. The lines are invisible only if I keep my face completely neutral and I consistently grab my hip when standing after sitting for too long.

This is it, this is adulthood . . . and it scares me. As long as I had young children, I felt like adulthood was some far off land that I hoped I wouldn't have to visit . . . ever. But I'm running out of excuses. I'm running out of time. I hear myself saying things like, "Let's get this mess cleaned up," and "Don't use that tone with me, I am your mother," and "I will turn this car around if you don't calm down back there." These sound suspiciously like things an adult would say.

So this is the shape that my life has taken. I happen to be one of the most blessed people on the planet, but still it gives my restless mind pause. This is my life. This is what I have built.

Will it change? No doubt.

Will it be better? Sure it will.

Will it be worse? Sure it will.

Will it all be okay? Who knows?

I'm too old to consult the magic eight ball anymore.

It's a Beast

I gots to talk about this.

So, last week I was enjoying my typical Thursday evening which comes standard with a locked bedroom door, a dirty martini, and Vampire Diary on the TV, when I saw something disturbing. No, not the fact that Vamp Di will be playing re-runs until April 7th--though that caused me to be distraught enough to pull some hair from my head and let out a howling, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

Remember, Hollie loves her some Ian Somerhalder even though lately I've been all like, what, seriously, for real, why are you so good now Damon? Be bad. Be real bad. Go kill some people, will ya? Do vampy things and do them with your shirt off. And is anyone else getting sick of Stephan crying so much? Not into the super-sensitive vampire guy. Nope. Not really digging him. But, OMG I love Caroline now that she's a vampire and kicking some serious tail and I just knew that Elena's mom was coming back, I just knew it and gee whiz, wouldn't it be cool if Matt turned into a vampire? I could totally see that happening.

Anywho, the disturbing thing that I saw was a preview for Beastly, a new movie that supposedly follows the whole A Beauty and the Beast storyline. I am absolutely one-hundred percent NOT a feminist (I'm making banana bread right now for Pete's sake!), but I cannot stand this idea!

I mean, okay, this guy is like really, really shallow and stuff and he thinks that it's all like really, really super awesome to be hot and then he like totally gets punished for his shallow thoughts and stuff by a witch or something and then he's like really, really grotesquely ugly and he has to make someone love him so that he can see that beauty is like really only skin-deep, you know, and then he gets to be like really hot again.

So, the way this story works, this shallow guy falls in love with a beautiful woman and that is enough to redeem him????? Like that makes him remarkable. If anyone is remarkable in the story, it's Belle. She falls in love with a beast even though he's not her species! Why does this guy get rewarded for falling in love with a smart, beautiful, kind, interesting girl? Is it really so hard to fall in love with someone like her? What did he learn? I fell in love with a beautiful woman, beauty means nothing?

Yeah, right.

It's the same reason I can't stand all these shows and movies where the nerdy guy gets the super awesome swimsuit model and he stays nerdy. This never happens in reverse. Sometimes the plain girl gets a makeover and then she gets the hot guy, but you never see the hot guy-plain girl combo. I wonder if it's because of the geek factor that naturally comes with being a writer (I've been to writer's conferences, trust me, I know what I'm talking about) and these script-writer-guys are trying to live out their nerdy boy gets beautiful woman fantasies on the big screen.

Give me Shallow Hal any day. Plus, it's got Gwynth Paltrow in a fat suit sans flaxseed oil. You gotta love that.