Every fall the world dies in an ecstatic riot of color, smell and taste. And every fall, I am unable to enjoy it because of a scrappy little weed.
Ragweed.
Every fall, despite all the medicine in the world, I end up looking like the guy from The Mummy who comes stumbling out of the corridor after Imhotep attacks him.
MY EYES! MY EYES!
I’m up late (or early) with a coughing toddler, uncomfortable from a recent surgery and watching Cars for the billionth time. Ice water, saltines and television were cure-alls in my childhood–that and a vaporizer which apparently breeds germs so you’re not supposed to use them any more–so I deploy them indiscriminately to fevers, coughs and aches.
Anyway, now is the perfect time for my mind to wander to things that have been inspiring me lately!
1. My friend and webmaster Nadine at Fox and Toad Design. Despite a fancy new job and a off-the-ironically-vintage-bicycle-chain hipster wedding in the works, she still has time to collect and tweet hilarious/adorable/awesome things all day long. I consider her my personal tastemaker.
2. Noblesse Oblige by Nancy Mitford. I had to ILL this slim, battered volume because it’s out of print and tricky to find–it sells on Amazon for about $150 dollars now. It’s this hilarious book of essays on class distinctions (U and non-U behavior and language) from the fifties. The novel I’m writing features a group of people who deliberately made themselves into an aristocracy, and so I loved reading such an irreverent yet insightful take on the world’s most famous aristocracy.
3. America, the Story of Us. It’s this History Channel series that was on last year, and I loved it then too. I rediscovered it after spending a couple days in the hospital recovering from an emergency surgery, and being too groggy to read, it made perfect half-dozing watching. What I love is the sense of scope and narrative, and the plain old optimism and pride that colors the series. Landry Park takes place in a future America that is not so optimistic, so it’s nice to remember our roots, and how every time, our better natures eventually overcame our bad.
4. Lana Del Rey. I’ve been listening to “Video Games” non-stop since I first saw a blurb about her in Entertainment Weekly. Sexy, depressing, addicting.
5. The Pride and Prejudice soundtrack. Dario Marionelli’s haunting piano pieces and lively dance tunes accompany Landry Park so well in some scenes that I’ll listen to them on repeat. While Jennifer Ehle will always be the real Elizabeth Bennett for me, the Keira Knightly version by far has the best soundtrack.
…why it is next to impossible for me to get anything done when my kids are awake, I’ll share a little scene from tonight. So I had eaten some bad Chinese food, which is something I do periodically to myself out of self-loathing, and was predictably sick afterwards. Luckily, the baby was in her crib asleep, but my toddler son was wide awake. I turned on Nick Jr. to distract him, and shivered my way through some stomach cramps on the floor.
So, once a month, there’s this time when I take lots of ibuprofen and tylenol, and I’ve told my son that it was for my tummy. He got really jealous about my tummy medicine and started BEGGING for “tummy medicine” night and day. Finally, out of sheer desperation, I gave him some fish oil and told him it was tummy medicine. He stopped complaining and now he asks for an extra dose of DHA a few times a week. Win/win?
Except, tonight when I was curled in a ball, sweating and retching into a bowl, he took it upon himself to give me “tummy medicine.” He even broke open the capsule so that all the dead fish goodness could ooze into my mouth that much faster. Since I was sick, fish oil sounded like the last thing in the world I wanted to taste, but my son stood in front of me AND WATCHED ME SWALLOW IT like I was Angelina Jolie in Girl, Interrupted. I choked it down, because he was being so sweet and concerned, and then was sick again.
Then–and I am not joking–he raised up my head and said completely seriously, “Mommy, I want you to run in circles.” And I answered, also completely seriously, “No.” Then he started yelling, “PLEASE RUN IN CIRCLES PLEASE RUN IN CIRCLES PLEASE RUN IN CIRCLES,” and I was terrified that he was going to wake the baby and then I’d have two crazy kids to deal with while I was vomiting while my husband was working the evening shift. So I ran in circles with the bowl in front of me.
Then he starts whipping at my ankles with a pajama shirt, roaring, “Faster! Faster!” like we’re in the Bataan death march, and trying to jump on my back like he’s Bella Swan from Twilight and I’m Edward, about to run through the trees. I did this until my husband got home and I could go die in the bathroom in peace.
My life as a mom is so busy and so staggeringly insane that it’s a miracle I get even manage to get dressed or take out the trash or remember to say “hello” to my husband every day. Although things would probably be easier if I laid off the Chinese food.
This aphorism courtesy of one of my critique partners. I have two critique partners who are both awesome, and both have different encouragement styles. One gives the most genuine, enthusiastic encouragement and gives her advice in my preferred style : the Compliment Sandwich. She is the Professor Lupin of critique partners, and yes, she is a werewolf. Or a gymnastics mom. Something where she leads a double life.
My other CP is the Professor McGonagall of critique partners, except without the hat. Her advice is more direct and to the point. It’s also invaluable.
So, right now, I’m at this point where I’m working on the novel more than I ever had, staring at the screen for hours at night after everyone else has gone to bed. It’s exhilarating and also exhausting. But I’ve found that the hard work has begun to change my writing style. I used to think of myself as a painstakingly slow writer; it took me two years to write my first book, two years to write my second, and two years to write much of this one. (Keep in mind that I was a full-time student, a part-time page/museum person, and a mommy during a lot of this.) But recently, as I’ve made it a point to dedicate a couple hours everyday to the writing, I’ve found my speed and output increasing. Which makes me think I should have listened to Professor McGonagall all along when she said, “Get off your butt and write. No excuses.”
And when I stopped making excuses, that I was too tired tonight because of the narcolepsy, that I was too busy because of the dishes and the laundry, that I was too uninspired to write anything good–when I stopped all that and cracked open my laptop anyway, I found myself to be a lot more productive and creative than I ever imagined.
I love King Arthur. In fact, I love King Arthur so much, that when one of my critique partners and I agreed to get tattoos when we found literary agents, I already knew what tattoo I would get.
King Arthur's burial cross. The inscription reads "Here lies interred on the Isle of Avalon the renowned King Arthur."
So when Starz debuted Camelot, I was really excited. Number one, I already liked Jamie Campbell Bower for being a mischievous incarnation of Gellert Grindelwald (Dumbledore’s ex-boyfriend and erstwhile wand-thief.) Number two, Camelot promised to capitalize on the actual, gritty history of Arthur and Dark Ages Britain, something that other retellings had either ignored (Merlin, which I LOVE, so I’m not bagging on, but they clearly went the anachronistic fantasy route, and Clive Owen’s King Arthur, which came close but missed the mark. [Sorry, Jerry Bruckheimer, but Arthur Castus lived in the second century, not the fifth.])
But despite the potential, and despite the fact that the actor playing Kay is seriously good looking, I’m not hooked. It’s not the melodrama that bothers me–obviously, I adore Merlin and it’s all about camp–and it’s not the sex or violence, though I feel like both are deployed a mite gratuitously. It’s something about the production quality, which feels a little less painstaking than that of Game of Thrones. It’s something about the acting, which feels forced and overdone at times.
I am going to hiss dramatically at you.
It’s something about the fact that so far, none of the characters have any of the audience’s sympathy. Arthur I’ll allow some leeway because the show will probably showcase his maturation as a central arc. But Merlin is inscrutable and without humanity; Morgan is frustrated and isolated but so ambitious that it’s impossible to feel sorry for her; and Guinivere’s most memorable attributes are her…well, let’s just say that they are very perky attributes.
Game of Thrones, on the other hand, takes its careful time making sure you care about each character and understanding their motivation. The acting is effortless and sincere–Peter Dinklage and Lena Headey stand out as the most brilliant here, but all the actors, even the children, are wonderful. The set design, the costumes and the CGI elements all blend together without a flaw. To me, some of the Camelot costumes look a little…Hot Topic-y, especially Morgan’s, but somehow Game of Thrones pulls off the Kingslayer’s golden armor and a skinny blond girl in leather chaps. It’s all in the execution.
Man, my sister is so hot.
And speaking of execution, Game of Thrones has Sean Bean.
Sean Bean.
That's right, I was Lovelace, Sharpe AND Boromir.
So even though both are gritty medieval epics with lots of blood, mud and sex, Game of Thrones is the clear winner to me. It breaks my heart because I love Arthurian legend so much, but I have to be honest. I’ll still watch Camelot, but I’m not going out of my way to recommend it to other people or lead a Joseph Fiennes Emmy campaign.
Plus, I’ll always have Merlin.
Dreamy sigh. Oh muscley Arthur.
Writes
Gestates offspring
Births offspring
Keeps offspring alive by feeding and keeping them away from outlets
Feels guilty about any time she spends writing, talking about writing, thinking about writing or writing about writing and not thinking about offspring.
Gennifer Albin has already posted several great and honest posts about the life of a WrAHM, so I won’t pretend to add much to it save for my own experience. (links)
A WrAHM is the same thing as a SAHM, with the impossible schedule of a WAHM, plus the guilt of a Working Mom-ahm. Got all that? Now say it ten times fast.
What I mean is, I think each lifestyle has pros and cons. Time away from kids vs too much time with kids (oh, it’s possible.) Using your degree to better the world vs using your second grade language arts to teach a toddler what a W looks like with ketchup on a plate. Missing some crazily beautiful moments vs being there the first time your toddler hugs his little sister voluntarily.
But writing at home is kind of a tricky combination. I manage to slip out a couple days a week to work part-time, but for the most part, I’m at home, being Mom to two kids under three from seven in the morning until nine or ten at night. If there’s a lull, I might be able to get on Facebook or check my email, but for the most part, the laptop stays shut until both kids are asleep. About once a week, I’m able to muster some sort of manic energy and work on my novel at this time. The rest of the time, I drag a book into the shower and read for fifteen minutes. (Yes, I read in the shower. Don’t you?)
Then I fall asleep.
About twice a week, my dad or a friend watches the kids for a couple hours so that I can write when the sun is up and not at the expense of my sleep. I try not to feel guilty imposing on people close to me for free babysitting, but it’s hard. Babysitting isn’t easy, and what am I doing really? Typing words? That maybe aren’t that good?
One thing I miss about being Student Mom is the black and white-ness of it. I had a job to do–read books by old, dead, white guys and write papers about them. I had to write the papers. I had to go to class. By doing so, I fulfilled my duty as a Jayhawk and earned a walk down a hill in a black robe.
But writing a novel? I don’t have to do that. I won’t earn anything by it (not yet, at least.) Is it the same thing as asking someone to babysit so that I can knit? Or read Entertainment Weekly? Maybe, but maybe not. Most writers will tell you that it’s hard not to write. Ideas and characters and narratives hover around you like a golden corona of inspiration–or a swarm of mosquitoes. The swarm won’t stop. Even if your fingers aren’t set to the keys, your brain is still writing, still dreaming and drafting and not stopping, even when you’re supposed to be de-gunking the high chair of smashed bananas.
Luckily, the people closest to me know this about me, and have accepted it.
The corona/swarm creates its own guilt, though. Sometimes I find it hard to focus on the more mundane tasks of the day, like diaper changes and giving baths. I’m anxious to get those things done, get those kids to bed so that I can start putting my ideas into the computer, but then after they’re asleep, I wish I would have been more patient, more engaged. The mundane tasks are some of the most important, and it won’t be long before I’ll be completely irrelevant to my children’s hygiene and entertainment and lives overall. And then I’ll cry.
Working from home, especially in a creative job, is a tricky balance. On one hand, I’m a decently educated (okay, at a state university, but what the heck), decently literate woman who loves to write. On the other, I’m a lady who knows how to use a breast-pump and who has Goodnight Moon memorized. I want to enjoy both parts of my life with equal engagement and not spend summer wishing it were winter and vice versa.
From what I understand, balance gets even more difficult once the work earns real money and has Real World Deadlines and Concerns. Then you can’t tip the scales more towards the kids because People Out There Expect Things From You.
I don’t have any advice and wise words about WrAHMing or WAHMing or any sort of mommying really. I’m hoping at some point I’ll figure it out, and at some point I’ll have a this heroic moment of doing everything and doing it well.
But until then, I’m glad I have my other WrAHMing friends.
For those of you who don’t know me yet, I’m a born and bred Kansas Citian, meaning I can tolerate jazz for brief amounts of time and I’m offended by dry rub barbecue. I grew up reading Jane Eyre and V.C. Andrews, and then spent most of my high school years fantasizing about marrying King Arthur (usually when I was supposed to be editing the school paper,) so my taste hovers somewhere between outlandishly gothic and medieval, with a dash of angst.
I worked for three years in a library that looked like an upside down boat, and then for three years dressing like a 1904 schoolmarm, and now I work as an office assistant, dealing with grown-up things like files and insurance. It’s all very serious and adult, and sometimes I even wear real shoes instead of flip-flops. But only if I can’t find my flip-flops.
I’m a second degree black belt in American kenpo karate, and I actually met my husband at my dojo when we were teenagers. He’s a police officer now, and I graciously offered to be his womb-pod (twice.) The two offspring and I spend most of the day playing and making messes, and sometimes I even find time to write things.
Blog things. Novel things. Grocery list things.
So mostly this blog will be about writing things, but it will also be about the mercurial, marvelous, mad city I live in; about the books I read and love and spill spaghetti sauce on because I can’t stop reading at dinner; about the things–pictures, friends, music and movies–that inspire me; and a little bit about my family, because my children are awake for 90% of my day and the other 10% is spent cleaning up after them, so they’re on my mind a lot. Oh, and my husband is a pretty neat guy, too.
Enjoy!