You are a powerful woman. Uncompromising, strong, everything I want you to be. But you are feminine - caring, unsure, vulnerable. This tension is unique to you. Say it in your writing. Your voice is valuable. - Papa, Christmas 2007
Here are the items she brought to the meeting: pen, notebook, Droid, and water bottle. She was excellent at dissecting a conversation, especially when those in authority were pontificating. Ignoring out-loud thinking and capturing her assignments on paper was her specialty.
The other managers were there, all men smooth and leaning back casually in their leather chairs, tossing out half-formed opinions and receiving thoughtful nods from the men higher up the food chain.
Neanderthal idiot goons, she thought, keeping her ankles crossed and an attentive smile on her face.
The discussion turned to fundraising. Mike from marketing, bless his heart, spoke up first.
"Sponsorships are essential to our next five years. I cannot stress how much our financial sustainability depends on alternative funding sources in these economic times."
Jim was next.
"To build on Mike's excellent statement, I would agree and also add that we need to think outside the box."
Then Ted.
"Yes, I agree with Jim and Mike and their valuable insight. We need to think outside the box and find unconvential alternatives."
She put her pen down.
Robert said, "We'll have to train our workforce to think outside the box. They don't do that very well."
Murmers of assent flowed around the table like the wave at a baseball game. There was a high five at the other end of the table.
She couldn't stand it anymore. She cleared her throat and said, "I think we need to put a request for proposals out for retailers to sponsor our delivery trucks statewide. I've analyzed the return on investment and if they give us a million dollars they can reasonably expect eight hundred thousand impressions."
As she was speaking, Robert and Jim turned in their chairs toward the CEO and leaned forward. Other than that, no one moved, and no one made eye contact with her.
Four seconds of silence passed.
Ted said, "I agree with Robert's excellent point. We can no longer afford to be the only ones with unconvential thinking. We need our entire company thinking about how to raise funds right now."
"Now is that a training problem, or a talent problem?" Jim asked.
Resigned sighs rippled through the room, making her guess that they thought the company's talent problem was hopeless.
Robert pointed his finger high into the air and said, "What about - and this thought just hit me now - what about our fleet? What about all that blank space on our trucks? I bet we could find a corporate sponsor who wants a piece of that."
Ted leaned forward in his chair.
The CEO said, "Robert, that's an excellent idea. How much do you think we should go after?"
Robert said, "Oh, I would say about one million dollars would get us back on our feet for now."
"I like the idea Robert. Get a team together and let's see what you can do. Give me an update in a week."
Her pen slipped to the floor. She rose out of her chair and bent to pick it up, then thought better of it. She stood, squared her shoulders and spoke.
****************************************************************************
Here are the items she brought to the meeting a week later: a cup of coffee and her Droid. As she sat down Robert handed her the sponsorship status report.
The CEO strolled in and parked himself in the seat next to her. "How are they doing, Rachel?"
"I've got a good team, Frank. We're on track to put out the sponsorship bid on Friday. We've got two potential funders on board already."
Robert said, "Sir, your decision to make Rachel our supervisor was the best you could have made. She is wholly engaged in ensuring a successful outcome on this project."
"I agree with Robert," Ted said.
Jim and Mike looked a little sick.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
My little pole cat, the octopus
I was going to write about the mornings in our house as we get ready for school and work, but I can't write these days. The creativity is gone and the words feel leaden even in my head and they certainly cannot be expressed in any meaningful way. They are awkward, clunky.
I was going to tell you about how rushed I feel in the morning, the last twenty minutes before we walk out the door are spent in chaos, with our two year old running from us and the only way we can get her dressed is to hold her down with our feet while we struggle to pull her clothes on. Like dressing an octopus, but those words are too old to use, because I've used them too many times before.
The reason I feel rushed is that my daughter is still, and quiet, and sits on my lap for the first half hour that we are awake. And I feel peace, and I don't give a shit that I'm going to be late for work because I can smell her hair as she pats my hand. When I finally break away to take a shower I pour her Cocoa Pebbles and threaten her with big trouble if she decides to put her hands in the fish bowl while I'm in the bathroom.
She glares at me and laughs at me like a little pole cat and I realize my words are too clunky and awkward to threaten my daughter properly. Life is a battle in our house and I'm going soft, and I'm pretty sure it's her fault.
I was going to tell you about how rushed I feel in the morning, the last twenty minutes before we walk out the door are spent in chaos, with our two year old running from us and the only way we can get her dressed is to hold her down with our feet while we struggle to pull her clothes on. Like dressing an octopus, but those words are too old to use, because I've used them too many times before.
The reason I feel rushed is that my daughter is still, and quiet, and sits on my lap for the first half hour that we are awake. And I feel peace, and I don't give a shit that I'm going to be late for work because I can smell her hair as she pats my hand. When I finally break away to take a shower I pour her Cocoa Pebbles and threaten her with big trouble if she decides to put her hands in the fish bowl while I'm in the bathroom.
She glares at me and laughs at me like a little pole cat and I realize my words are too clunky and awkward to threaten my daughter properly. Life is a battle in our house and I'm going soft, and I'm pretty sure it's her fault.
Monday, August 13, 2012
The Goddess Lounge: I Want To Go To There
Yesterday I read The Goddess Lounge from start to finish, in between Sunday afternoon laundry and taking the kids to the park, cooking dinner and doing the dishes.
Just wonderful, delicious, funny, etcetera. I copied some quotes from the book into my diary, and it takes a special book to do that.
Sometimes you have to put brush to canvas, pen to paper, and whorls to keyboard. This book made me want to do that again.
The Goddess Lounge
Just wonderful, delicious, funny, etcetera. I copied some quotes from the book into my diary, and it takes a special book to do that.
Sometimes you have to put brush to canvas, pen to paper, and whorls to keyboard. This book made me want to do that again.
The Goddess Lounge
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Her Words
She keeps a box under her bed, way in the corner nearest the window. The box is the size of a small jewelry box, but wooden and plain. In the box are hundreds of scraps of paper, one word written upon each scrap. Sometimes the words are scrawled quickly in pencil, sometimes they are boldly written in all caps with ink. Never names, although she wants to write the names of the ones who came before him. Just impressions or feelings or objects, enough to capture the thought but not enough to damage anything if the box were discovered.
Bench.
Coal.
Caramel.
Skin.
Cotton.
Smoke.
Dance.
Unwittingly.
Desperately.
He can never know about the box, should never know, but if he did, he would probably be puzzled and wouldn't bother to read more than a couple of scraps, and he certainly wouldn't lay them out to look for patterns.
When she feels tethered, she fingers the paper. With her eyes closed she can feel the bold words and the soft ones. She lets them slip through her hands to the floor and listens to the whisper on wood and wonders if the breeze blew them through the window could she follow.
If you were to paint her she'd be in a cotton dress, in bare feet, sitting on the edge of the bed in a plain room. It would be a hundred years ago, and she'd have rough, worn hands for someone so young. She might be looking out a window, or she might be looking at her papers near her feet. He'd be working in the field, visible through the window behind her, but small compared to the vast horizon.
Bench.
Coal.
Caramel.
Skin.
Cotton.
Smoke.
Dance.
Unwittingly.
Desperately.
He can never know about the box, should never know, but if he did, he would probably be puzzled and wouldn't bother to read more than a couple of scraps, and he certainly wouldn't lay them out to look for patterns.
When she feels tethered, she fingers the paper. With her eyes closed she can feel the bold words and the soft ones. She lets them slip through her hands to the floor and listens to the whisper on wood and wonders if the breeze blew them through the window could she follow.
If you were to paint her she'd be in a cotton dress, in bare feet, sitting on the edge of the bed in a plain room. It would be a hundred years ago, and she'd have rough, worn hands for someone so young. She might be looking out a window, or she might be looking at her papers near her feet. He'd be working in the field, visible through the window behind her, but small compared to the vast horizon.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Munnay
I will write today. I will find time between the Toys R Us trip to buy Tinker Bell shoes and coloring books (which I am truly, totally excited for, no shit) and the library and naps and lunches and dinners and cleaning the food off the walls. I'll write something poetic, probably, deep enough for readers to crawl into and make themselves comfortable, relax in repose until they have to crawl back out into their own busy lives. I
sorry, got interrupted there. Was doing a "Mr. Krabs" impression for my 22-month-old. "Moneymoneymoneymoneymoney."
will clearly articulate some inner truth of my life today. I
"Moneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoney." Now my kid is rubbing her hands together. "Munnay. Munnay." Sweet.
Her laughter is a pleasing counterpoint to Spongebob in the background.
I forgot what I was doing.
sorry, got interrupted there. Was doing a "Mr. Krabs" impression for my 22-month-old. "Moneymoneymoneymoneymoney."
will clearly articulate some inner truth of my life today. I
"Moneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoney." Now my kid is rubbing her hands together. "Munnay. Munnay." Sweet.
Her laughter is a pleasing counterpoint to Spongebob in the background.
I forgot what I was doing.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Letter to Fourteen Year Old Me
Dear Me,
Oh, dear me, dear me, sounds like I'm wringing my hands. You're thirty four now. Seems hard for a fourteen year old to imagine, I'm sure, her life twenty years gone.
I'm jealous of you, the fourteen year old me, nostalgic for you. All of your boyfriends and various states of undress with your boyfriends are approaching, and I remember the idea of first love and horny sex but that's all it is, an idea. I don't have the energy these days to relive it. I envy you those times, but not the heartbreak. I say there is nothing I can do to save you from that pain, nor would I want to. You got your heart broken many times, but it led you to the man you are married to today. You have pilot projects, test cases, comparison studies ahead of you. I don't advocate hesitation or caution when it comes to love.
If I could infuse you with confidence in middle school and high school, I would.
You are still a writer, you'd be pleased to know that. Ramblings and poems and navel-gazing stuff and trying to make sense of the world, and some of our stuff is published.
The things you remember are not the classes, or the college classes, or the jobs. The strongest memories are being outside in nature with the ones you love. Your best memories are the times you don't get credit for, where you are merely enjoying yourself.
Your only regrets are the way you have treated people. At some point in the next twenty years sarcasm will become a crutch, and you'll spend years disentangling yourself from it and forcing yourself to speak openly, and see the world openly.
You do live in a city, even though you never thought you would. But you take your son fishing and camping. Your children pretty much rock. But don't worry about that yet. Enjoy just you for a while.
You gained a bewildering confidence somewhere along the way.
Try again to get into that creative writing class in college. Go on those trips, goof off, lay in the sunshine more.
The best things that happen to you are other people. Be open to them.
And put some sunscreen on your face, because we get skin cancer at 25, at a time we don't have health insurance, for God's sake.
And just be prepared: the only constant is change.
My sister has begun a women's group, to talk about those things that are extremely important to talk about but are shunned in mainstream culture, or ridiculed, or forgotten. Women's lives are intricate and not just for Oprah magazine. One of the group members had a suggestion: "It is an idea for women to contemplate their life journey, and to write yourself a letter. The letter is from the person you are now, to the person you were 10 or 20 years ago, telling yourself what you would like to say to your younger self, to spare yourself pain or to help yourself on the way if you could have... Here are very poignant examples to inpsire you.think I will do this activity-http://www.oprah.com/spirit/Letters-to-My-Younger-Self-Trisha-Yearwood-Barbara-Boxer/1"
Oh, dear me, dear me, sounds like I'm wringing my hands. You're thirty four now. Seems hard for a fourteen year old to imagine, I'm sure, her life twenty years gone.
I'm jealous of you, the fourteen year old me, nostalgic for you. All of your boyfriends and various states of undress with your boyfriends are approaching, and I remember the idea of first love and horny sex but that's all it is, an idea. I don't have the energy these days to relive it. I envy you those times, but not the heartbreak. I say there is nothing I can do to save you from that pain, nor would I want to. You got your heart broken many times, but it led you to the man you are married to today. You have pilot projects, test cases, comparison studies ahead of you. I don't advocate hesitation or caution when it comes to love.
If I could infuse you with confidence in middle school and high school, I would.
You are still a writer, you'd be pleased to know that. Ramblings and poems and navel-gazing stuff and trying to make sense of the world, and some of our stuff is published.
The things you remember are not the classes, or the college classes, or the jobs. The strongest memories are being outside in nature with the ones you love. Your best memories are the times you don't get credit for, where you are merely enjoying yourself.
Your only regrets are the way you have treated people. At some point in the next twenty years sarcasm will become a crutch, and you'll spend years disentangling yourself from it and forcing yourself to speak openly, and see the world openly.
You do live in a city, even though you never thought you would. But you take your son fishing and camping. Your children pretty much rock. But don't worry about that yet. Enjoy just you for a while.
You gained a bewildering confidence somewhere along the way.
Try again to get into that creative writing class in college. Go on those trips, goof off, lay in the sunshine more.
The best things that happen to you are other people. Be open to them.
And put some sunscreen on your face, because we get skin cancer at 25, at a time we don't have health insurance, for God's sake.
And just be prepared: the only constant is change.
My sister has begun a women's group, to talk about those things that are extremely important to talk about but are shunned in mainstream culture, or ridiculed, or forgotten. Women's lives are intricate and not just for Oprah magazine. One of the group members had a suggestion: "It is an idea for women to contemplate their life journey, and to write yourself a letter. The letter is from the person you are now, to the person you were 10 or 20 years ago, telling yourself what you would like to say to your younger self, to spare yourself pain or to help yourself on the way if you could have... Here are very poignant examples to inpsire you.think I will do this activity-http://www.oprah.com/spirit/Letters-to-My-Younger-Self-Trisha-Yearwood-Barbara-Boxer/1"
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Denver traffic report
the highway is a metallic millipede
with thousands of cars for legs
stop still slow still stop still slow still stop
sinuous movement
the other appendages and I
we're in this together
moving downtown
only to reverse course and
crawl home after dark
I know why Enri writes on the train
with thousands of cars for legs
stop still slow still stop still slow still stop
sinuous movement
the other appendages and I
we're in this together
moving downtown
only to reverse course and
crawl home after dark
I know why Enri writes on the train
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Beecher's Birds
"There are joys which long to be ours. God sends ten thousand truths, which come about us like birds seeking inlet; but we are shut up to them, and so they bring us nothing, but sit and sing awhile upon the roof, and then fly away." - Henry Ward Beecher
The greatest gift you can give a writer is to ask her to write.
Why haven't I been writing? I feel like an old cooked transulucent onion, stuck to the bottom of the stove, nothing to offer the world. Depression, maybe.
I am the woman who gets invited to a meeting to hear a grand new idea and then when she shows up, tries her best to control the meeting and everyone there.
I am the waitress you will take your sandwich order and bring you the special anyway.
I fight and manipulate to make sure my way holds in spite of any new information or dissenting opinions.
I am a fighter who can win any battle at work and has all the connections and they have no idea who they're dealing with and I like it that way.
My soul has bags under her eyes.
I have had to fight at work, for about 15 months now, and maybe a little at home too, fight to keep my identity. But in the process I've holed up and blocked myself from change. Survival mechanism, I suppose.
In all the fighting and surviving and winning I can't imagine any fun or enjoyment in life. Writing, sex, food, play, exercise hold no allure for me. In my fortress it's no fun. Those little birds of Beecher's are on the tin fortress roof, so small and delicate in the sunshine that I can't hear them through the stone.
So what advice do I have for myself? What is this warrior princess to do?
Well, the advice that will always hold true for me, no matter if I'm six or ninety, is don't take myself so seriously.
And I feel my sister on the sidelines with her sign that reads, "Let Go." Learn to let go.
What if I did show up to a meeting and didn't try to drive the outcome? What if I learned to listen?
Now my sister switches signs. The new one says, "Letting Go Is Not Giving Up."
The greatest gift you can give a writer is to ask her to write.
Why haven't I been writing? I feel like an old cooked transulucent onion, stuck to the bottom of the stove, nothing to offer the world. Depression, maybe.
I am the woman who gets invited to a meeting to hear a grand new idea and then when she shows up, tries her best to control the meeting and everyone there.
I am the waitress you will take your sandwich order and bring you the special anyway.
I fight and manipulate to make sure my way holds in spite of any new information or dissenting opinions.
I am a fighter who can win any battle at work and has all the connections and they have no idea who they're dealing with and I like it that way.
My soul has bags under her eyes.
I have had to fight at work, for about 15 months now, and maybe a little at home too, fight to keep my identity. But in the process I've holed up and blocked myself from change. Survival mechanism, I suppose.
In all the fighting and surviving and winning I can't imagine any fun or enjoyment in life. Writing, sex, food, play, exercise hold no allure for me. In my fortress it's no fun. Those little birds of Beecher's are on the tin fortress roof, so small and delicate in the sunshine that I can't hear them through the stone.
So what advice do I have for myself? What is this warrior princess to do?
Well, the advice that will always hold true for me, no matter if I'm six or ninety, is don't take myself so seriously.
And I feel my sister on the sidelines with her sign that reads, "Let Go." Learn to let go.
What if I did show up to a meeting and didn't try to drive the outcome? What if I learned to listen?
Now my sister switches signs. The new one says, "Letting Go Is Not Giving Up."
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Letter to Papa
Dear Papa,
I just finished reading your story, finally. You’re not getting a handwritten letter because I type much faster, plus now I will have an electronic copy of our correspondence, dude.
As I told you on the phone, I got into your story. I’ve read some of it a while ago (13, 14 years?) and gotten different things out of it now. I have certain books I read over and over again and depending on the stage of life the stories mean different things to me. Women Who Run With the Wolves has stories with hags and wise women and girls getting lost in the forest, and your last story had some of the themes I’m used to. I feel incredibly lucky that you write (and Mom) because it is the chance to know you on a different level.
The words in your stories are beautiful – beautiful phrases and sentences too. Some of my favorites:
“Listening to you talk to a woman is like drinking clabbered milk – it goes down in fits and makes you gag.”
…
“I want a family, Willie, I want kids, I want somebody to hold me.”
…
”Oh my god, she’s coming up. I don’t know if I like her. I don’t know if she’s that good looking. Maybe living by myself isn’t so bad.”
“I’m not interested in talking you into enjoying this. You are a real piece of work.”
.
These mindless robots of proper usage These husbanders of inconsequentia
The hospital scene made me LOL (Laugh Out Loud). “Now do you see why you can never take anything for granted in a hospital?” Hee hee.
…
He worried about the wholeness of the building because it had been built by men and even well-intentioned men sometimes make mistakes. Brian knew just how powerful the world outside the door was. He wrapped himself and went out into the night. While the women and girls, carefree and cozy, slept on, he scraped the snow from their rooflines with a long pole. Khaa! That’s the difference between men and women, children.
Excuse me??!!! Maybe it’s because I’ve spent many night hours awake with my children while my husband slept – carefree and cozy – that I take a major exception to this. Men may worry about the structure and the building and in our case, mowing the lawn, but women’s work is worrying about the emotional and physical health of the entire family, and rack up many, many sleepless nights. I’m convinced women don’t fully sleep for the first 5 years of their children’s lives, because they need to hear the coughs and cries.
But I forgive you, because then you make up for it when Brian tells the story of Claire killing the hag. I’ll let it slide.
…
So. I’ve included two of my short stories. The Toe will be published in The Sandstar Review, an online poetry and prose publication. Carrying On is the prelude to The Toe. Whenever I want to write fiction I use these two characters, Fran and Oliver, and it frees me up to be a little more creative. I’m thinking I should invent another character who is a working mom, but I fear there will be too many clichés coming out of that one.
I’ve also included vital information from the internet, in case you ever have to make the decision whether or not to drink sea water.
I am incredibly grateful to have your stories, and I look forward to reading them again when I’m forty. Sigh. The only good thing about turning forty in six years is that I will cease to be ignorant and I will become wise.
I love you,
Your eldest daughter,
I just finished reading your story, finally. You’re not getting a handwritten letter because I type much faster, plus now I will have an electronic copy of our correspondence, dude.
As I told you on the phone, I got into your story. I’ve read some of it a while ago (13, 14 years?) and gotten different things out of it now. I have certain books I read over and over again and depending on the stage of life the stories mean different things to me. Women Who Run With the Wolves has stories with hags and wise women and girls getting lost in the forest, and your last story had some of the themes I’m used to. I feel incredibly lucky that you write (and Mom) because it is the chance to know you on a different level.
The words in your stories are beautiful – beautiful phrases and sentences too. Some of my favorites:
“Listening to you talk to a woman is like drinking clabbered milk – it goes down in fits and makes you gag.”
…
“I want a family, Willie, I want kids, I want somebody to hold me.”
…
”Oh my god, she’s coming up. I don’t know if I like her. I don’t know if she’s that good looking. Maybe living by myself isn’t so bad.”
“I’m not interested in talking you into enjoying this. You are a real piece of work.”
.
These mindless robots of proper usage These husbanders of inconsequentia
The hospital scene made me LOL (Laugh Out Loud). “Now do you see why you can never take anything for granted in a hospital?” Hee hee.
…
He worried about the wholeness of the building because it had been built by men and even well-intentioned men sometimes make mistakes. Brian knew just how powerful the world outside the door was. He wrapped himself and went out into the night. While the women and girls, carefree and cozy, slept on, he scraped the snow from their rooflines with a long pole. Khaa! That’s the difference between men and women, children.
Excuse me??!!! Maybe it’s because I’ve spent many night hours awake with my children while my husband slept – carefree and cozy – that I take a major exception to this. Men may worry about the structure and the building and in our case, mowing the lawn, but women’s work is worrying about the emotional and physical health of the entire family, and rack up many, many sleepless nights. I’m convinced women don’t fully sleep for the first 5 years of their children’s lives, because they need to hear the coughs and cries.
But I forgive you, because then you make up for it when Brian tells the story of Claire killing the hag. I’ll let it slide.
…
So. I’ve included two of my short stories. The Toe will be published in The Sandstar Review, an online poetry and prose publication. Carrying On is the prelude to The Toe. Whenever I want to write fiction I use these two characters, Fran and Oliver, and it frees me up to be a little more creative. I’m thinking I should invent another character who is a working mom, but I fear there will be too many clichés coming out of that one.
I’ve also included vital information from the internet, in case you ever have to make the decision whether or not to drink sea water.
I am incredibly grateful to have your stories, and I look forward to reading them again when I’m forty. Sigh. The only good thing about turning forty in six years is that I will cease to be ignorant and I will become wise.
I love you,
Your eldest daughter,
Friday, June 24, 2011
Torn Debate
http://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/06/07/introducing-the-motherlode-book-club/
Torn: True Stories of Kids, Career & the Conflict of Modern Motherhood is the first book in the Motherlode Book Club hosted by Lisa Belkin (see link above.) I’m a contributor; read my essay, When I Sneeze, I Pee a Little, and you might laugh a bit. And maybe pee.
Comments are coming in on the NY Times site like crazy, and I find myself not really wanting to jump in the fray. The comments range from SAHMs (Stay At Home Moms) – apparently we are labeling EVERYTHING with acronyms these days, making it that much easier to stereotype people – to die-hard career women who feel they’ve sacrificed nothing as moms in high-powered jobs.
Daycare bad
Daycare good
“Daycare at 4 months old? Why don’t you just take your kid from the hospital straight to daycare?”
Contributors are a bunch of whiny rich mothers
Quit yer bitchin’
Etcetera.
Here’s the deal. Each to her own. What works for you doesn’t work for me. Vicey versey. This is a time in history when a large number of women are the primary breadwinners (especially now in the bad economy, look it up) and are mothers with responsibilities at home.
And here’s the other deal. Women’s work is this:
Laundry
Dishes
Dinner
Diapers
Bedtime
Grocery store
Dry cleaning
Vacuuming
Calendar items, including doctor and dentist appointments, financial planner, vacations
Emotional health of entire family, including remembering birthdays, hugging children when they are crying, planning family events, sympathizing with sick kids, knowing when to hold ‘em, when to fold ‘em, when to walk away
Etcetera.
It’s being charge of my own emotional health plus the mental health of the entire family that is the honest-to-goodness straw on the proverbial camel for me.
Of course not every woman feels this way. But the debate obviously goes on (86 comments on the NY Times blog) and some women, like me, feel divided, feel torn.
I do feel like the story of dads is missing in the book. These days young dads like my husband juggle work and family right along beside us. But my husband doesn’t feel torn. It’s not an identity crisis with him.
By the way, the name of this blog was almost Identity Code Red, which is highly dramatic but illustrates the point.
In this time of social change when both moms and dads are going through a redefinition of roles, why the hell wouldn’t we write about it?
By the way, there’s a need for more books like this, from fathers’ perspectives. Someone write that down and go make some money off the idea. Peace out.
Torn: True Stories of Kids, Career & the Conflict of Modern Motherhood is the first book in the Motherlode Book Club hosted by Lisa Belkin (see link above.) I’m a contributor; read my essay, When I Sneeze, I Pee a Little, and you might laugh a bit. And maybe pee.
Comments are coming in on the NY Times site like crazy, and I find myself not really wanting to jump in the fray. The comments range from SAHMs (Stay At Home Moms) – apparently we are labeling EVERYTHING with acronyms these days, making it that much easier to stereotype people – to die-hard career women who feel they’ve sacrificed nothing as moms in high-powered jobs.
Daycare bad
Daycare good
“Daycare at 4 months old? Why don’t you just take your kid from the hospital straight to daycare?”
Contributors are a bunch of whiny rich mothers
Quit yer bitchin’
Etcetera.
Here’s the deal. Each to her own. What works for you doesn’t work for me. Vicey versey. This is a time in history when a large number of women are the primary breadwinners (especially now in the bad economy, look it up) and are mothers with responsibilities at home.
And here’s the other deal. Women’s work is this:
Laundry
Dishes
Dinner
Diapers
Bedtime
Grocery store
Dry cleaning
Vacuuming
Calendar items, including doctor and dentist appointments, financial planner, vacations
Emotional health of entire family, including remembering birthdays, hugging children when they are crying, planning family events, sympathizing with sick kids, knowing when to hold ‘em, when to fold ‘em, when to walk away
Etcetera.
It’s being charge of my own emotional health plus the mental health of the entire family that is the honest-to-goodness straw on the proverbial camel for me.
Of course not every woman feels this way. But the debate obviously goes on (86 comments on the NY Times blog) and some women, like me, feel divided, feel torn.
I do feel like the story of dads is missing in the book. These days young dads like my husband juggle work and family right along beside us. But my husband doesn’t feel torn. It’s not an identity crisis with him.
By the way, the name of this blog was almost Identity Code Red, which is highly dramatic but illustrates the point.
In this time of social change when both moms and dads are going through a redefinition of roles, why the hell wouldn’t we write about it?
By the way, there’s a need for more books like this, from fathers’ perspectives. Someone write that down and go make some money off the idea. Peace out.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
"Torn"
Torn is book about work and family. I'm not talking about the Torn I recently read in which a girl dies and comes back to life as a demon slayer with super-magical powers and the ability to inherit the essence of each demon she kills, thus leaving her torn between her demon and human natures.Where was I? Yes, this Torn is coming out May 2011, and it contains an essay by yours truly called "When I Sneeze, I Pee a Little."
So, if you are a mom who wants to write, a career woman who wants to procreate, a man who is married to a career woman who wants to procreate and write, or a career woman who wants to stay at home with her kids, this book is for you. Pretty much the only people this book is not for are stodgy old men who dream about the good old days when women could do the birthin' and the cookin' and the shuttin' up.
Here is what the book is about, in case my demon-slaying references were confusing:
Trying to strike the right balance between career and motherhood is one of the most stressful, heart-wrenching issues facing women today. In Torn, 46 women examine the conflict between the need to nurture and the need to work, and reveal creative solutions for having the best of both worlds. Their stories offer hope and inspiration, but also reveal the messy realities of modern motherhood and life’s inevitable crises, both small and large: from breast pump mishaps to battles with cancer; diaper blowouts to debilitating depression; competitive cupcake baking to coming home from war. In the end, the reader can take comfort in the knowledge that there is no perfect mother; nor is there a perfect balance when it comes to kids and career. The real challenge facing women today is not juggling their many roles, but realigning their expectations of what is possible and accepting that success does not equal “doing it all.”
Monday, October 4, 2010
Characters
Two characters in my head just interact with each other in the most banal way and refuse to allow any action or point or plot into their story. Sure, they're interesting and one smells like mold and the other has fake piercings, but that only gets you so far. Well, screw you two until you can grow up and help me find a middle and an end.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Chick Lit
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=129423107&sc=fb&cc=fp
My sister brought this interesting NPR post to my attention. There is no such thing as "chick lit." Writing about home and feelings and relationships is valid.
In other news, I'm so busy that today as I was driving the kids to daycare I had a brief moment of terror because I thought I had forgotten to put my shirt on. I looked down, and indeed, I was wearing a shirt. Score.
My sister brought this interesting NPR post to my attention. There is no such thing as "chick lit." Writing about home and feelings and relationships is valid.
In other news, I'm so busy that today as I was driving the kids to daycare I had a brief moment of terror because I thought I had forgotten to put my shirt on. I looked down, and indeed, I was wearing a shirt. Score.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Melancholy, Where Are You?
I suspect that I am deliriously happy, which, as any writer knows, is a death sentence for creativity. I'm lucky I dreamed up a severed toe a while ago, but for now I'm just contented.
As any woman who has endured unspeakable pain giving birth to two children knows, it is excruciatingly difficult to be sympathetic to her husband who has just gotten a vasectomy. I am so contented that I did not remind The Old Man that if he thinks getting snipped is bad, he could never handle what I've been through.
I've managed to keep the kids happy and the house running smoothly while he's laid up watching Sports Center. Baby Girl is 10 weeks old and on a sleep schedule. Things are going so well that I can't even summon angst when she pukes on me.
So, I apologize for my lack of posts. Maybe I'll try something crazy and write about happy stuff.
As any woman who has endured unspeakable pain giving birth to two children knows, it is excruciatingly difficult to be sympathetic to her husband who has just gotten a vasectomy. I am so contented that I did not remind The Old Man that if he thinks getting snipped is bad, he could never handle what I've been through.
I've managed to keep the kids happy and the house running smoothly while he's laid up watching Sports Center. Baby Girl is 10 weeks old and on a sleep schedule. Things are going so well that I can't even summon angst when she pukes on me.
So, I apologize for my lack of posts. Maybe I'll try something crazy and write about happy stuff.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Had a Baby and Stuff
My daughter was born on Monday. I'm happy. I'll tell you all about it soon. We can't call her Coppertop Junior because she doesn't have red hair. It's black, like her dad's.
In the meantime, check out my winning contribution on The One-Minute Writer Blog:
http://oneminutewriter.blogspot.com/2010/04/i-choose-one-of-daily-winning-response.html
In the meantime, check out my winning contribution on The One-Minute Writer Blog:
http://oneminutewriter.blogspot.com/2010/04/i-choose-one-of-daily-winning-response.html
Friday, March 26, 2010
Better Than Sex
I'm a fan of drama, of finding the next high, of filling the empty void with excitement. Slow, steady contentment makes me cranky. I've been known to pick a fight just to feel the adrenaline. Since I'm content with my life, a state that holds no tension or drama, I will often use sex to fill the void. The problem is I'm not getting any lately, and I really have no grounds to pick a fight, and no fights mean no make-up sex. But I am grateful for some lovely squishy things that tide me over. Four things that are BETTER THAN SEX:
1. Philly Cheesesteaks from Off Broadway Cafe. Warm, melted cheese, sauteed peppers and juicy steak enveloped by wheat bread to add nutritional content. Orgasmic.
2. Driving to work at 6:00 AM in my Japanese car listening to Sugarland and Bon Jovi.
3. Writing. Disappearing into my head to the exclusion of all other thoughts.
4. Reading Alice Munro's short story Nettles and circling sentences I love and being humbled by one of the truly great writers of our time.
Of course, when I get some action again for the first time in months I'll wonder why I thought these other things even came close.
1. Philly Cheesesteaks from Off Broadway Cafe. Warm, melted cheese, sauteed peppers and juicy steak enveloped by wheat bread to add nutritional content. Orgasmic.
2. Driving to work at 6:00 AM in my Japanese car listening to Sugarland and Bon Jovi.
3. Writing. Disappearing into my head to the exclusion of all other thoughts.
4. Reading Alice Munro's short story Nettles and circling sentences I love and being humbled by one of the truly great writers of our time.
Of course, when I get some action again for the first time in months I'll wonder why I thought these other things even came close.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Stay Tuned
I just want to say that I have a wonderful short story lurking in my noggin but had to write an article for work, which was a total boring bummer compared to this crazy story in my brain.
My wonderful sis-in-law is taking me for a massage and mani and pedi tomorrow, and I hope to squeeze in some writing before then. Tomorrow could be the best day EVER.
p.s. WHY I WRITE: Annie mentioned the other day that relationships have a way of making us lose our identity. As a woman who directs her energy mostly towards her kid (soon to be kids), husband and job - who in fact, is being alternately smacked and hand-fed cookie crumbs by her 3 year old even as she types - I understand that identity is a slippery thing. Writing is my way of thinking. It's how I figure out the world. It's where I do things I've always wanted to do. It's where I hope one day to be all edgy and push acceptable social norms and be seen as a totally unique brave soul. No pressure or anything.
My wonderful sis-in-law is taking me for a massage and mani and pedi tomorrow, and I hope to squeeze in some writing before then. Tomorrow could be the best day EVER.
p.s. WHY I WRITE: Annie mentioned the other day that relationships have a way of making us lose our identity. As a woman who directs her energy mostly towards her kid (soon to be kids), husband and job - who in fact, is being alternately smacked and hand-fed cookie crumbs by her 3 year old even as she types - I understand that identity is a slippery thing. Writing is my way of thinking. It's how I figure out the world. It's where I do things I've always wanted to do. It's where I hope one day to be all edgy and push acceptable social norms and be seen as a totally unique brave soul. No pressure or anything.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Why my "Navel-gazing drivel" matters
So I write about The Old Man, aka The Husband, and The Kid, because it's how I make sense of the world. It's how I make sense of the fact that as a woman I am expected to bring home the bacon, cook it, and look good doing it. I was raised to think I could do it all - and finding out that my whole identity changed when The Kid came was a big shock. And I think that there are a lot of other women out there who feel the same.
And The Husband doesn't fit neatly into any beer-gut, noncaring stereotypes. He's a father unlike our fathers from thirty years ago. Do I have a right to blog about all the challenges even when hunkalicious is right there beside me? Of course I do. Life isn't a fairytale but it's fun.
I could use my ridiculous Ivy League degree to blog about politics or social activism or cooking, but the deeply personal has always interested me more.
Annie Danielson said, "Home is where you story begins." She's right. http://thestudio.danielsondesigns.com/DDShortStory.aspx
Thanks to Don Mills Diva http://donmillsdiva.blogspot.com/2009/01/write-on-respect-blog.html for inspiring this post.
And The Husband doesn't fit neatly into any beer-gut, noncaring stereotypes. He's a father unlike our fathers from thirty years ago. Do I have a right to blog about all the challenges even when hunkalicious is right there beside me? Of course I do. Life isn't a fairytale but it's fun.
I could use my ridiculous Ivy League degree to blog about politics or social activism or cooking, but the deeply personal has always interested me more.
Annie Danielson said, "Home is where you story begins." She's right. http://thestudio.danielsondesigns.com/DDShortStory.aspx
Thanks to Don Mills Diva http://donmillsdiva.blogspot.com/2009/01/write-on-respect-blog.html for inspiring this post.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Writing
Here's my experience with writing a story. A fictional story, but really I'm drawing from the moments of my life where I've felt the most alive, the most passion.
Writing the first word is agony. There are self doubts that scream at me: why would anyone want to read this, why would I even bother to put the words on the page? What sort of revisionist history will I create, how true will I be to myself, my own voice? What am I doing, seriously?
The first four pages fly by. They are an opening, an introduction that will most likely be cut, that will become irrelevant to the story I'm really writing. But they are necessary, a necessary mental direction - a map laid out on the page that says, it's ok to continue. You're going somewhere now.
Then I get to the hard part, the part that needs perspective, that's screaming out for it, and yet I haven't found a voice yet to provide that perspective, to write about all of this as if it actually turns out ok.
This is a story that I want to hear. I want to know how it ends. If for no other reason, I need to continue to write it.
Writing the first word is agony. There are self doubts that scream at me: why would anyone want to read this, why would I even bother to put the words on the page? What sort of revisionist history will I create, how true will I be to myself, my own voice? What am I doing, seriously?
The first four pages fly by. They are an opening, an introduction that will most likely be cut, that will become irrelevant to the story I'm really writing. But they are necessary, a necessary mental direction - a map laid out on the page that says, it's ok to continue. You're going somewhere now.
Then I get to the hard part, the part that needs perspective, that's screaming out for it, and yet I haven't found a voice yet to provide that perspective, to write about all of this as if it actually turns out ok.
This is a story that I want to hear. I want to know how it ends. If for no other reason, I need to continue to write it.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Small Miracles
Thanks to Margaret for writing about the goddess Devi for me, and for putting her own sense of humor and spin on the lessons Devi presents. http://margaretfinnegan.blogspot.com/2009/11/goddess-of-week-devi.html
The "minor gods" she mentions are very relevant to my situation right now. I hate asking for help, or admitting I need anyone, especially my husband, The Old Man. I have this vision of myself as an independent woman, forgetting that everyone needs someone.
I was thinking today that I really want to write, and want time to write. As much as I love spending time with The Kid - taking him to the pool, or the movies, walking with him, and especially the early morning 5:00 am quiet time we get together, while he is holding my big hand in his little one - I need silence and time to myself. And the writing itch is scratching long red marks in the back of my brain.
So The Old Man called, and said, "I was thinking that since I'm going to be working late nights next week you would need some time to yourself. Why don't I take The Kid tomorrow morning?"
So this "minor god" is thinking ahead, anticipating my emotional needs. Granted, I play a big role in this because I made it clear my needs were not being met, but I did not expect him to be attuned to what I needed so soon, or so accurately.
It is acceptable to depend on others. It's still so strange that I am actually afraid of doing this with a man I've known for seven years.
The "minor gods" she mentions are very relevant to my situation right now. I hate asking for help, or admitting I need anyone, especially my husband, The Old Man. I have this vision of myself as an independent woman, forgetting that everyone needs someone.
I was thinking today that I really want to write, and want time to write. As much as I love spending time with The Kid - taking him to the pool, or the movies, walking with him, and especially the early morning 5:00 am quiet time we get together, while he is holding my big hand in his little one - I need silence and time to myself. And the writing itch is scratching long red marks in the back of my brain.
So The Old Man called, and said, "I was thinking that since I'm going to be working late nights next week you would need some time to yourself. Why don't I take The Kid tomorrow morning?"
So this "minor god" is thinking ahead, anticipating my emotional needs. Granted, I play a big role in this because I made it clear my needs were not being met, but I did not expect him to be attuned to what I needed so soon, or so accurately.
It is acceptable to depend on others. It's still so strange that I am actually afraid of doing this with a man I've known for seven years.
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