Writing is an optimistic endeavor in which you are wooed by some bitch-ass muse who gives you an idea and floats a few bars of music ahead of you singing sweetly "I'm right here." And so you think you can write it all down and it'll be poetic and beautiful and fast. The grind of getting it all to work is the dirty work she doesn't tell you about. I could really smack her with the broomstick I'm using to chase all the details around with.
If I win the battle, I'll be releasing "Between Families" sometime around Christmas. If the victory is delayed, it might not be until 2014. More on that later.
I talk too much about parenting. I know I do it. I hate that I do it. I love that I do it. I want to be sure to be a person outside of parenting. A person you don't have to talk to about your kids or your sore spots in order to relate. I want to. But most of my life is parenting. Most of my mind is parenting. It's making writing pretty hard. Because when I write, my whole mind is writing. I forgot that I was driving and almost dumped the coffee grounds in the recycling yesterday because I was in my novel instead of the actual moment. I love that/hate that.
I come up with games to play with my kids all the time. Usually they involve smooching or snuggling because I'm a smooshy mama like that. But sometimes they involve drawing pictures and coming up with stories to go with them. Sometimes they're humming over the gravel on a dirt road at the top of your lungs with the windows down. And those times are why it's ok with me that I talk too much about parenting. You have to do what you're passionate about.
The thing is, parenting isn't my only passion, just the most important one I'm engaged in right now. I'm also passionate about this book. And I'm passionate about the mountains and yoga and swimming and being in my body in the world I'm in. And teaching. And I'm getting to do most of those things. Not so much the being in my body in the world part. I dream about it. I get to write and teach and be with my kids lately though.
I started teaching at the community college. It's actually a pretty amazing fit. I think. Time will tell. I'm more skeptical about that sort of thing. I'm trying to temper my optimism a bit. Sometimes it works. The rest of the time, I get really swept up in helping grown ups learn to write better and be passionate about finding and speaking the truth and improving their lives.
So I go to sleep completely exhausted and satisfied and overwhelmed and busy. And I dream of moving my body around in every which stretch strong way. It's a full life. A struggling, hard work life. It makes me need to smooch my kids and wrestle them and tickle them and smile and sleep and dream.
And now to write.
This made more sense when I was unconscious.
11 hours ago