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Posts Tagged ‘writing’

If you read my last post — I quit — you probably knew I didn’t really mean it.  Or that I meant it at the time but I was  more on strike than actually quitting.  As someone posted on my Facebook page, “Good luck darlin’. You can’t escape what you are.”  And of course he was right.

Last night I went to the Cathedral Crossroads program at The National Cathedral.  There is a labyrinth to walk, a Celtic harp to listen to, and an hour-long program that might be about spiritual writing, dance, meditation or nature.  I didn’t want to do much.  Just sit quietly, watch from a distance and let the harp gently pluck away my feelings of rejection, rebellion, and vague embarrassment at having thrown a tantrum on my blog.

Labyrinth at the National Cathedral. From http://www.nationalcathedral.org.

Then, for the first time ever, (more…)

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I quit

Last night I quit.  No more writing.  No more draining myself — exsanguinating myself — to take care of the twins five days a week and then try to wring out writing on nights and weekends.

What prompted this resolution?  A rejection.  Sent by e-mail.  At 9:30.  On a Sunday night.

During regular business hours I’m steeled for rejection.  It’s a (sadly large) part of (pretty much) every writer’s life.  But when I thought I’d check e-mail one last time before heading to bed I was not prepared for the ambush in my in-box.  I actually wasn’t prepared for this rejection at all.  I had a good feeling — a great feeling — about sending this particular piece to that particular place.  But I was wrong.  Form-letter-rejection wrong.  So I quit.

I lay in bed for a good three hours wide awake and (more…)

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Ah, New York Times Sunday Styles — you often surprise me, and that’s part of the pleasure of reading you.  But this Sunday your front page featured “The Baby Bump,” which claims, “For celebrities whose film and TV careers have stalled, motherhood is proving a lucrative Plan B.”  Really?

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Ah, New York Times Sunday Styles — you often surprise me, and that’s part of the pleasure of reading you.  But this Sunday your front page featured “The Baby Bump,” which claims, “For celebrities whose film and TV careers have stalled, motherhood is proving a lucrative Plan B.”  Really?

(more…)

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So April 26th was Take Our Daughters and Sons to Work Day.  I missed it, but it doesn’t matter.  I never take my twins to work — they’re already there.  My twins and my work live in the same place: home.

I’m a writer.  Less than twenty yards separate my workspace from their play-space.  Sometimes they break out of their room, run up to my desk, stand on their tippy toes, their chins perched on the edge, their tiny hands reaching for the corner of a piece of paper, a pen, a paperclip, the coaster under a mug of tea.  They love to grab things and run away, waving their contraband like a pirate flag.  But this is not conducive to writing. (more…)

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I’ve been reading Bitter Fame, a biography of Sylvia Plath.

This is not a very smart thing to do — read anything about or by Sylvia Plath — when you are feeling a bit imbalanced yourself.  I remember reading The Bell Jar while staying with my then-boyfriend’s parents in Phoenix, a city I had never been to before, which I found ordered in its geography but almost anarchic due to the heat: big mistake.  Reading the story of Esther Greenwood’s encroaching madness made me almost as anti-social and rude as Plath was said to be in her last few years.

Reading Bitter Fame now is a very different experience.  (more…)

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I’m still new to being a “writing mother.”  So new that I feel like I have to put the term in quotes.

When the twins and I first came home from the hospital I had a surprising amount of time to write — in my journal, at least.  I was recovering from a C-section and had an enormous amount of help.  (What was unhelpful was doctors telling me not to lift anything heavier than a coffee cup — right after they’ve delivered me of seven-plus-pound twins.  Yes — seven-plus pounds.  Each.)  (Rather more than a coffee cup, no?)

I spent long stretches of time lying in bed, propped up with pillows and balancing my laptop on my knees.  I was encouraged to do this.  And it was wonderful.  Who knew I’d look back on those weeks of recovery (which had its not-so-pleasant side, believe me) with envy?

After six weeks I was deemed fit — and the real project of motherhood began.  (more…)

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