On Motherhood & Writing...

"A good man produces good out of the good storeroom of his HEART.  An evil man produces evil out of the evil storeroom, for his mouth speaks from the overflow of the HEART."  Luke 6:45

I have decided that I am a writer because I am a thinker.  Writers are thinkers, yes.  We are trying to trudge our way through some larger picture and make some sense of it all.  However small or large:  scrubbing the orange scum off the faucet in the bathtub, or standing up on the surf board for the first time, or telling someone something that we know will break their heart.  We’re trying to convey what we feel and how we feel it through the details, senses and emotions that we live.  Memories that were conjured up, experiences that surfaced, sounds we heard and people that were there.

Maybe by writing everything down we will be able to make a conclusion or learn a lesson.  The underlying reason for the tears or the laughter or the reoccurring conversation that we cannot quit playing in our mind will be brought about.  Maybe not.  But we, as writers, know we are not alone in our quandaries.  Yet, we are alone.  Alone in out apartments, or condos or beach houses.  Alone in a house with five kids or in a coffee shop on a laptop. We are the only ones who can say what it is that we have to say.  We’re the only ones who can take a pickaxe and chip-chip chop away at whatever it is that is eating us inside.  The story has to be birthed.  And birthing is not easy.

  I’ve never given birth but I know it seems quite a unique, emotional, lonely, unexplainable thing.  There’s nothing there, then there is.  People give encouragement and backrubs or bring gifts, but they cannot feel what Mom has felt for nine months.  They can tie a Congratulations balloon around the mailbox and smile and “ooooo” and “cooo” but even they realize there is something more overwhelming that is overtaking the one who actually pushed this amazing thing out. 

Mom worked a lot harder at this thing than anyone. Even the maker of the christening gown and delicately designed booties.  Even the one who crafted a personalized scrapbook or made coconut sour crème cake and spaghetti with the homemade sauce.  Their time is nothing.  There love is something, yes.  And their time is recognized and necessary, but all they have poured into loving this new thing, to appreciating this new existence is nothing.  All their anticipation is just that.  It’s not a “day-in and day-out, 24-hours of wondering if life will ever be the same again” journey.  Everyone but Mom is a bystander, someone who can walk away and get the heck out.  Not Mom.  Mom is in it for the morning sickness, the hemorrhoids, the weight gain and the nine months of dealing with a parasite sucking the life out of her.

So, when a story is born, when something is nearing completion, I find myself in either one of two circumstances.

a.) I want to jump up and down, pat myself on the back and tell everyone that I am such a genius.  I smile at myself in the mirror and treat people nicer.  Even still, most people I give my stuff to read, even after several revisions, reply with an, “Oh, that’s a good piece.”  No confetti, no taking me out to coffee, not even a remark that I should really put forth a serious effort and get published.  Nothing.  Then I feel mediocre, at best. (sometimes A can lead to B, but usually I fall directly into one distinct camp.)

 b.) I feel like a terrible writer than I am wasting my energies pushing these keys for hours on end creating sentences out of words that make minimal, if any, sense whatsoever.  Really, what am I trying to accomplish?  I often want to quit all the nonsense jargon, anecdotes, niceties and just say, “Today was pointless and crappy,” getting straight to the point.  But sometimes rambling is nice.  At least once a week I want to quit.  Even if (and that is a HUGE if) I do become published somewhere someday, who is ever going to read it besides my husband and my mom.  And there is no money in it. 

Writing is something larger than myself; writing is a way to connect people and, in some way, make them feel something; fears, dreams, life lessons and beliefs realized.  

When I was younger my mom would refer to the verse above when I was being a total brat.  I was the queen of back-talking.  The times I recall getting in trouble as a child were for mouthing off.  I was full of attitude. 

So, I realized the importance of words and thinking before speaking.  Even though I still find it hard to keep my mouth shut sometimes.  The wrong words can shatter a life, they can resound with hate and bitterness and bring depression.  But the right words are a fine, fine thing.  They lift up, encourage and bring peace.  This is what I am trying to do.

To connect people to God, each other, themselves, that is what it's about.