by ways of an introduction

By the time I can finally sit and scratch a few words on to paper, the voices in my head are already pissed.

“Write damn you! Write already!”

Never mind the four loads of laundry that still need to be folded and put away. Or make that re-folded as some probably were folded before and we’ve had to go digging through them in order to find clean clothing.

Never mind the dishes in the sink from yesterday, and the dirty skillet still on the stove from last night’s dinner.

And never mind the fact that the baby is still in her pajamas at two in the afternoon, as am I, and we’re both unwashed.

In the midst of the this, the yelling and impatience get louder and louder “Write already! What else is there to do! WRITE!”

I am jealous of my writing, umarried, non parent friends. There are no other requirements to get in the way of the art. No one to worry about except for yourself. You can do whatever you want. This is truly a selfish thing to say. But I think part of an artist’s life is innately selfish. One needs to be selfish, to focus on themselves, and what they’re doing, and not helping everyone around them with every aspect of their lives. They need to not be relied on. Just the artist and the art. Because somewhere, that battle between what you should be doing – the dishes, making dinner, working a real job – get in the way of what you really should be doing – writing.


There needs to be no one else in the room, looking over your shoulder, and wondering if you’re using just a bit too much black and red in the painting? “It’s so depressing? why not use some of that pink, and make it a happier picture?” There needs to be no one else in the room questioning the books you’re reading are just a little bit too out there? or if the word selection is really needed. “Do you really have to use the F word right there? It will make people uncomfortable.” This constant presence in the room, or in the mind of the artist is toxic at its very least, paralyzing at its worst.

And yet ironically, this is exactly where I find myself.

I find myself married for seven years, with no end in sight, nor do I want one. And I find myself mother to a beautiful little girl. I have no wish to return her.

I am surrounded by people, mostly my immediate family: parents, sister and her husband and their son, and my grandmother who is my last living grandparent; all who love me, call on me, and depend on me for various things.

Added to this, I find myself with one unpublished novel that is 99.9% done, and about five other ideas that are in varying stages of development ranging for hundreds of pages of polished text to ideas scratched out on note paper in crayon. What I do not have in my possession is the time to write them all out. Nor do you find me in possession of an agent or writing contract.

We all had dreams after graduate school. Writing, publishing, best sellers, readings, book signings. We were all going to be the next literary darling. We all had five year plans, and we all looked to the future with hopeful and enthusiastic eyes.

Fast forward those five years, and you find me frazzled, unable to speak a coherent sentence, chasing a half naked toddler who’s just peed on the floor, while my Alzheimer-ish grandmother stands in the laundry room because she has gotten lost and she can’t find her way down the hallway out the front door so she can hang the clothes out on the clothes line.

You’d also find me desperately making bread, laundry detergent, granola, yogurt, baby food, and cutting out fabric to make baby clothes and extra diapers, just in case….

And then somewhere, in the middle of this, of this manic opera of duties, of shoulds, of musts, or have tos, a realization hits me as unwelcome as a cold shower. This is my life.

Next come the questions: how did I get here, and how do I get back?

So, allow this, dear reader to be some entertainment, word of warning, teaching, What happens when a writer doesn’t write? What happens when life gets in the way? How do we realign our lives to meet up with our dreams and goals, taking into account the loves and passions we have found along the way? And how do we get by on making nothing?