Control Freak

Hallelujah! I’ve conned Silas into what we call the “nap trap”.  He gave up napping long ago, but sometimes, if I am tired enough, I can lay myself down and eventually (usually we’re talking at least a half an hour to an hour later) he will fall into slumber.  God or Destiny, or heck, maybe it’s Lucille, taps me on the shoulder to wake me up and Voila!  I have some writing time!

So here I am.  After a long enough pause.  (Yes, I sat down last night and stared at a blank screen for two hours…)  Still, here I am.

I don’t know how else to start but to say that yes, sometimes, I can be a control freak.

Of course, I noticed this immediately after writing the post “Fashion Police”.  (Hell, I knew it already.  But, let’s pretend that I just recognized it.) And, with this recognition, I have improved.  I now give Silas choices: this collared shirt or that one?

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Writing and Musing and Poems

Today

I randomly opened to this Bukowski poem in You Get so Alone at Times it Just Makes Sense:

take a writer away from his typewriter
and all you have left
is
the sickness
which started him
typing
in the
beginning.

Several Days Ago

There is nothing I have to say.  Nothing really.  I could say anything at all.  Be forewarned.

My husband and son have given me some writing space.  My husband is cleaning up the mess in the living room that I should have cleaned up today but instead paced around the house thinking up brilliant ideas.  My son is running around him in one of his many personas, laughing and being his little perfect self.  My son, in fact, has been kind enough to allow me space, in little tidbits, all day.  He spent an awful long time in the tub, for instance, while I sat on the toilet with my laptop.

So, although I have been deep in thought, wavering between jubilation and anxiety, it has been a very good day.  A day dedicated to thinking.  To change.

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Fashion Police

This is not a resurrected post, but one that combines past work and present.  I am slowly getting my voice back!  Enjoy!

Years ago, I wrote the following:

The morning we went to the ENT, we had to get up rather early. My husband couldn’t go with us to the appointment, so he decided to help out by getting Silas ready. With Paul, “helping” means a 57% chance of Silas’s nighttime diaper getting changed and a 97.5% chance that Silas will get correctly strapped into his car seat.

If we were to err on the side of the majority, Paul’s help-out routine would be close to acceptable.

Except, I never take Silas anywhere in his jammies unless it’s absolutely necessary. Actually, I need to take that statement a step further. I never take Silas anywhere in clothes that don’t match… well. Okay, I need to go further still. I make a plan for Silas’s next-day outfit every evening. I plan these outfits according, not to the weather, but to whether or not the cut and color scheme will maximize his attractiveness. And, no, I’m not kidding.

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Little Life-Altering Epiphany

I wrote this post on my former blog when Silas was 15 months old.  I am including it here because it deals with writer’s block and with epiphanies both of which I am currently experiencing.  As you will note, I need to get back in this saddle.

So, while I flounder around starting posts and stopping them mid-sentence so that I can edit, edit, edit my content, so that I can double-check to make sure that I am saying what I am meaning to say, so that I can verify that I am writing something worthy of this brand of instant “publication”, I am, by all stretches of the creative imagination, not writing at all.  (In fact, I just started to delete this sentence and then stopped myself and forced myself to write it before I could read back to the beginning and delete the whole damn thing.  Where are thou, my self-confidence???)

So, I have, just recently, in the last few days in fact, experienced a little, life-altering epiphany.   And, yes, like most life-altering epiphanies–or at least like most of my life-altering epiphanies, because I have had so very many, you know– the burst of mind-numbing enlightenment was completely obvious.  Beyond obvious.  Let me fill you in…

While perched on the toilet– I admit that I often feign constipation in order to fulfill my literary yearnings– I revisited the introduction to Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott.  In her opening paragraph, she discusses a childhood filled with books and with people actually reading them.  She talks about a writer father who sprawled across the couch every evening after dinner to read, read, read.  She writes about how the whole family would retire to their favorite reading spot and about how, on occasion, their house was also filled with, perhaps better than books, her father’s writer friends, who would, to Lamott’s dismay, occasionally pass out at the dinner table. Ah!  How I wished, with all my stupid heart’s desire, that I could be living that life.

Living that life?!?  You’d think I was envious of someone who built a 4-acre palace on the back-side of a cumulus cloud.  I mean, golly, turning my back deck into the Playboy Mansion may be a little beyond my reach, but living in a house in which people stretched out after a good meal to enjoy a good book?!?

Yeah.  I’ve been spending my time desperately yearning for the easily possible.

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A Kick in the Butt!

I just received a very pleasant kick in the butt.  An enjoyable slap in the face.  A lovely pull of the rug from under my feet.

And, you, lucky you, are privy to this kick, this slap, this rug pulling.  Just read Kim’s comment on my last post.  Yes, the comment in which (and I am paraphrasing here) she implores me to stop whining (she didn’t say whining, that’s all me) and seeking out approval.  Write, she says.  Write for you.  Just write.

She is absolutely correct.  (She even went so far as to say that I frustrate my audience with my lack of confidence.  Hoo-yah!)

I could go on and on about when and how this happened to me: this shift into needing constant approval, this inability to write without the audience in mind, this lack of confidence.

But, I won’t.  I will spare you.

Instead, I will focus on a turn around, a lesson, an unfurling if you will.

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