Three months in

Well hello!

I haven't posted anything since January, but the writing is still going strong. Earlier this month I did a little retrospective about the writing I've done so far (writing about writing, what a navel-gazer I am). Here it is:

I started this year with a goal of 200,000 words. I was so excited to start. I had no plan for what I was going to write; just trusted myself to writing, that it would come to me.
I am over a quarter of the way toward my goal, and I could not be happier with the transformation that has taken over my life. I feel like writing a thank you note to whoever put me up to this. I'm not sure if I should address it to my past self or to God. I am too modest for the former and not devout enough for the latter.
I spent January writing things for myself, sort of getting into the groove of things with prompts. I ended up writing my first allegory. I hadn't finished a story in years, but I finished that one, and I felt so proud of myself. I felt a newfound confidence in myself. I felt that the 200,000 word goal was doable.
February, I tried my hand at short stories. I started several. I wrote what my sister later told me was called “microfiction.” I wrote scenes. I found that writing fiction was much harder than responding to prompts. It takes more time, more heart, more dedication. More pushing.
March got difficult. My stories, it seemed, had run their course. Pushing plotlines any further seemed futile. I cast about for material and came up short a lot of the time. But I pushed through, and wrote even when I didn't have anything to write about, and milked stories. Fortunately I had my story lottery to lean on, seven randomly picked prompts as seminal points for thousand-word-minimum stories. I got some wonderful material from those, and am still working on them.
Now it is April. Looking back on the past three months and seeing how much I've written (over 50,000 words), I'm in awe of my own abilities. But even more amazing than the word count is how I feel about myself, and what I've learned.
I'm reading The Right to Write by Julia Cameron, and her take on writing really speaks to me. She sees it as a spiritual thing, something you need to do every day just like eating, something that helps you make sense of your life. What I feel about writing does touch upon the spiritual. It has radically changed my life. I want to write through everything. I want to write as therapy. I want to write to understand myself better, my life better. And I am doing that. It has given me more confidence, made me more open and honest about everything. I feel like I added a dimension to myself. Or found a dimension of myself that was lost for a while.
Before I started this writing project, I felt flat, like something was missing from my life. I felt two-dimensional, like a lifeless drawing on a forgotten pad of paper. Writing has helped me jump off the page and live fully.
I'm still in the learning process, of course. I'm still just three months in. I'm learning to craft characters, I'm learning how to follow plots, I'm learning how to tackle fatigue and lack of ideas and my own personal blocks. I'm learning to fight lapses in self esteem.
Most of all I still haven't tackled dealing with an audience. I can swallow my pride and send bits and pieces of my work to my husband and my sister, but letting people read my work is very difficult for me. I'm so afraid of getting shot down. I know my fledgling writing-ego is very fragile yet. I'm working toward it. I know one of these days I'll just have to dive in and let real writers read my stuff. I'm just not ready yet.

On that note, I do plan to post some of my writings (like, real writings) soon. I've got a few pieces of short fiction that have gotten the stamp of approval from Anthony and Aimee, and I feel comfortable putting them out in the world.

I feel awesome.

That is all.

3 weeks in

I have not been blogging, because I've been writing.

New Years' Resolution numero uno is going very, very well. It's been three weeks now, and I've written every single day. My daily goal is 548 words (that adds up to my 200k goal over the course of the year), and while some days I haven't quite written that many, on most days I write far more. I'm overshooting my goal by about 1500 words already.

The three week mark was significant for me, because my childhood piano teacher told me that if you can do something consistently for three weeks, it becomes a habit. And so it has! It's no longer a matter of "am I going to find the time to write today"-- it's "what am I going to write about today?"

Here's what I wrote today; it seemed vaguely blog-worthy.

What I Want to Write About, Really.

I have felt for a long time now that I have something in my mind worth writing about; it just hasn't come together yet. But there's something there, building. Maybe everyone has this sensation of all of their thoughts, experiences and knowledge sort of stewing together in their minds, which will someday combine perfectly and come out as a work of art. If the novel I have building were a cake, I would be somewhere between the mixing of the batter and the putting it into the oven. Maybe mixing and adding ingredients is what I was doing all along, and now, since I have been writing every day, this is the process of pouring the batter and letting it bake. Maybe I should have used a different metaphor.

Anyway, there are several elements of this creative dish that I would like to have come out in the finished product, so let's brainstorm that. My goal (my dream?) is that in the end, the different elements will be well combined but still retain their own unique flavors, like in any good dish.

These elements are (in no particular chronological order):

• Motherhood. There's no way I can keep motherhood out of my writing now that it's such a part of my life. It is who I am now, so it's going to come out in my characters. Even when Jodi Picoult had a 40-year-old female lawyer with no children in one of her books, the woman was still maternal in a way, and ended up a mother in the end. I think the same would happen if I tried to write a childless character. Plus, there are so many funny and poignant and bizarre elements of motherhood and childhood; there's lots to write about there.

• Psychology, psychoanalysis, Lacan, abnormal psych, etc. I worry that my brain is just a little rusty on these concepts, but as the past year has shown me through my blog, they're easily conjured. I'm not sure exactly how these things will come out in my writing, but a few things that fascinate me in particular are schizophrenia, and the psychological effects of trauma (both in childhood in adulthood).

• The supernatural. I don't particularly believe (or disbelieve) in ghosts, but I still find paranormal stuff interesting. I spend more time than I'd care to admit reading stories and watching shows about paranormal stuff. It's fascinating and it never gets old. I also love horror movies, and I pay specific attention to what is particularly scary about them, to me. Often it's just the suspense. A lot of times when it gets to the super-scary, everyone-in-the-audience-screaming parts, I'll think “Well that was scary, but this happening would've been scarier.” I've sort of got a mental list going of things that would freak me the hell out.

• What I'm most interested in doing is trying to combine the psychological element with the supernatural element. What if you thought you were seeing paranormal stuff, but it turned out you were just showing the first symptoms of schizophrenia? What if you were already schizophrenic, but were seeing paranormal stuff and no one believed you? There are lots of avenues to explore along that line between what's in your head and what's real but unexplainable.

I also dabble with thoughts about religion, but I'm not sure I'm well informed enough about religion to write it. Environment is also something to ponder, and I've got an edge on that, since I've lived both in rural Maine and New York City. An interesting thought is that my urban dweller friends are creeped out by the woods, whereas I was fine in the woods but really creeped out by the city until I'd lived here a good long time.

So there you go, Internet viewers. A peek into my process (that sounded dirty). Will I write the Great American novel? Time will tell.

Worthwhile resolutions: 2009 and 2010

I don't usually start thinking about New Year's resolutions until well after Christmas, but this year I'm starting early.

It seems like 2009 was a crap year for everyone. It certainly had its ups and downs for me. But it's coming to an end, and I have high hopes for 2010. A new decade. A full year with a toddler, not a baby anymore. I'm employed and we are certainly more comfortable financially (not to say we're real comfortable; we've gone from "freaking out" to "okay for the moment").

So let's think about resolutions to make the new year better.

First, let's revisit last year's resolutions. I'll copy-paste:

1. Continue writing.
2. Be more adventurous, less shy, more confident, less timid.
3. Read, if not 50 books, as many books as possible.

Okay, starting with number 3. 50 books was a stretch for someone who regularly reads long-ass novels. But I have read 37 books and am working on the 38th, although whether I'll finish it by the end of the year is questionable (it's Dostoyevsky, nuff said). For those interested in a list of books I read this year, they are here: http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/1846816-miranda?shelf=read-in-2009

I read some good ones. The ones that really stand out for me are Black Boy, Roots, Beloved, and Cold Mountain. Guess I'm a sucker for a long, sad novel.

Resolution Numero Dos really ended up happening, which is kinda surprising. I've become comfortable with this city. As a tutor, I regularly navigate it by myself to get to my students. I'm constantly meeting new people that way. I'm still shy (always will be), but my timidness has really fallen by the wayside, mostly out of necessity due to my job.

I also joined a meet-up group for Brooklyn moms, and have made a couple of good-acquaintances-almost-friends.

And Téa is a social butterfly, so that has forced me to socialize with people on the train, at the playground, in stores, etc. Now that she knows the word "Hi," there is no stopping her. She loves people and most people respond to her in a very positive way.

So that just leaves the first resolution. Keep writing. Cue the "wah-wah" music.

I mean, I haven't stopped writing altogether, so that's a plus. But as you all know (pff, I'm saying "you all" like there are people besides my sister and my husband who read this), I only update this blog occasionally. I update my LJ more frequently, but I don't really consider that real writing. I *barely* consider this blog real writing.

Okay, so I made a start in 2009. For 2010, however, I'm pushing myself just a *teensy* bit more.

On LJ, there is a community called "Get Your Words Out." Basically it forces its members to pledge to write a certain (very high) number of words in a year. Like NaNoWriMo, but a whole year instead of a month. I have pledged to write 200,000 words in 2010. What "counts" encompasses anything creative (fiction, poetry, etc), and essays that are non-school-related.

This is going to be a challenge to me, since writing can't really take priority over being a wife and mother and tutor, but I'd like to try to make it a priority over reading. Despite the challenges, this seems like the perfect year to do this, since I'm not working full time, and I'm not in school.

So, goal one for 2010: Write 200k words.

Hope and despair

It's been almost a year since I started this blog, and it seems like it's kind of petered out. Have I run out of things to say, or am I holding myself to too high a standard?

I found this community on LJ, which lets you pledge to write a certain word count in a year. The lowest is 100k words in one project. I want to do this. I don't know what I'd write about or even if I'd share my writing with anyone, but I want the practice. I used to be a writer. I want to be a writer again. Maybe I'll just shoot for a short horror story or something.

More on that later, perhaps.

Another horoscope:

"Indignation is one of the most rewarding of emotions," writes Theodore Dalrymple, "as well as one that automatically gives meaning to life . . . There is nothing like irritation to get the juices circulating and the mind working." Of all the ideas that have made me irritable and indignant in recent weeks, this one steams me the most. I disagree so completely that I am practically beside myself with paralyzing rage. And as I plunge my attention further and further into his ridiculous proposal, I feel the tension coursing through my body. I sense my mind becoming swampy, my perceptions distorted. There's a good chance that I am inducing in myself a state of stressed-out stupidity. Please don't follow my example, Aries. It's possible that sour fury could be useful to you at other times, but right now you should avoid it. If you want your intelligence to work at peak efficiency in the coming days, you'll need long stretches of tender, lucid calm.

Totally agree with the quote. Irritation is basically what I run on, as my husband will attest. At times it does give me a lucid attention and a kind of gumption to get things done. But at other times, it does mire me in a "state of stressed-out stupidity." I think lately I have been falling into the latter category more often. Stressed-out stupidity kind of defines my 2009 experience, actually.

So, calm. Yeah. I'll work on that.

Speaking of stress, my sweet, laid back, well-behaved baby has become a toddler. On the one hand, I'm enchanted by this upright, fast-moving, curious little girl with her expressive face and her adorable little "Hi!". On the other hand . . . She's a toddler. With all the trappings: She's easily frustrated, stubborn, and often teething, makes a giant mess, gets into everything that's not nailed down, and has boundless energy. And I continue to worry that I'm not doing right by her. Plus the teething-related sleep deprivation has turned me into a useless zombie.

I've become jealous of everybody who is not me. Several weeks ago, I started writing a post enumerating the many people I am jealous of. Let me copy-paste:

• People who are in grad school
• People who get married before they have children
  
• Women whose pregnancies were planned
• Women whose husbands are excited about having additional children
  
• People who are financially comfortable (not rich, but not struggling)
• People who are still in college
• Women who had real, traditional weddings
• People who own houses
• People whose babies sleep through the night

I often wish I could go back in time and have a talk with myself a couple months shy of two years ago. I don't know if I would have come to a different decision about my pregnancy, but it would have been nice to be informed of the repercussions of my decision. Here was my understanding of my choices:

1. Have an abortion, and regret it my entire life.
2. Have a baby, and ultimately be glad I made the choice, but possibly grieve over my life being so changed.

In a nutshell, #2 is correct. I never expected, however, that motherhood itself would come with so many mixed feelings. I thought I would love my baby, take to mothering very well, and have a happy little dyad. I do love my baby. But it's so much more complicated than I could ever have known.

I wish Anthony and I had had more time together. I wish I'd had a proper relationship with him, a proper marriage proposal with a ring, a proper engagement, a proper wedding. A proper honeymoon. I wish we weren't struggling. I wish I could get a full-time job without the headache and expense and worry that comes with finding quality daycare. I wish Anthony could have been happy about finding out I was pregnant. I wish I could have been happy about it. I wish I could have spent my pregnancy excited, reading a hundred baby books, buying a hundred toys and outfits, dreaming about the little bundle of joy to come. Instead I was dirt-poor, worrying about bills, totally indifferent to the bundle of joy and trying not to think about it. And sometimes I even look back on that part of my life with nostalgia, because it's even worse at times, now.

One of my biggest problems is how Téa has impacted my relationship with Anthony. It's just a psychological dynamic that we were totally unprepared for. Whenever she does something to annoy him, I take it personally and I feel like he's annoyed with me, because I made her. And then I feel guilty for ruining his life. Basically, whenever he is unhappy or stressed out (which is all the time), I feel guilty.

Guilt pretty much runs my life, honestly.

I didn't mean to make myself cry, here. I didn't mean to ramble this much.

I guess I do have things to write about.

Almost.

I don't usually pay much attention to my horoscope, but I was led to this one in sort of a weird way, and it's pretty damn uncanny.

ARIES [March 21–April 19] I don't think I'm being unduly optimistic when I say that you're on the verge of achieving a victory over your bad self. You have been dealing more forthrightly with the lowest aspects of your character and have also become aware of the difference between your out-and-out unregenerate qualities and the unripe aspects of your character that may someday become very beautiful. There's a second sign that you're close to transforming one of the most negative things about you: You have almost figured out the truth about a murky curse that you internalized some time ago. When you identify it, you will know how to banish it forever.

Oh, the look on my face when I read this horoscope. I think I'm going to have to subscribe to this zodiac guy (Rob Breszney). You don't have to know me well to know that I've been battling some demons lately. Let's break it down, shall we?

I don't think I'm being unduly optimistic when I say that you're on the verge of achieving a victory over your bad self.

True. After a bit of soul-searching, discussion, and some hormone shifts, I am feeling a lot better about things.

You have been dealing more forthrightly with the lowest aspects of your character and have also become aware of the difference between your out-and-out unregenerate qualities and the unripe aspects of your character that may someday become very beautiful.

What are the lowest aspects of my character? I suppose this hearkens back to my little essay about my dad, that whole Edwards why-am-I-worth-the-space-I-take-up thing. It's so easy for me to feel very bad about myself, not so much in a self-pitying way, but in a self-berating way. I start feeling useless. And to sum up, I often feel like I'm not making my parents proud, which is one of my biggest motivations in life. I don't know if that's a good motivation to have or not.

Anyway, one of my worst character flaws is that I tend not just to feel like I'm not worthy of my parents' pride, but to feel that I will never and can never be worthy of it. Total uselessness. Total despair.

Moving on to unripe aspects. I hope and pray that I will someday become the woman I'm forever striving to be. Someone successful, secure, happy. Someone worth being proud of. Someone who can tackle things with confidence. And I'm starting to see that a little bit, as far as my job goes. I'm forced to deal with strangers, so that's getting easier. And as I teach more lessons, I'm becoming more confident in myself as a tutor. I can be good at this.

There's a second sign that you're close to transforming one of the most negative things about you: You have almost figured out the truth about a murky curse that you internalized some time ago. When you identify it, you will know how to banish it forever.

That "almost" is a key word here. And I am figuring it out. The more I read books and forums and articles about parenting, the more I think about how I was raised, and how I'm going to do things differently.

I have always felt that my parents did a very good job, and my relationship with them is great. But they weren't perfect; no parents are. I was an extremely sensitive child, and very shy. I only realized this fully when I worked at the after-school program, and realized that no child there, no matter how shy, was as painfully shy as I was as a kid. I found it humiliating to talk to strangers. I turned bright red at the drop of a hat. I was so sensitive to the anger and disappointment of my parents that I'm kind of surprised they ever really had to punish me. My little sister was the button-pusher in the family, and made my parents (especially my dad) angry with no fear. Meanwhile I walked on eggshells to avoid making waves of any kind.

(And here I'm sure my sister will remind me that we did fight with each other, and that obviously made our parents angry, and I most certainly initiated most of those fights. I won't deny that I did my utmost to piss off my sister, which is what I was punished for 90% of the time I had to be punished.)

I was such a sensitive child that I couldn't take a joke or a tease or an off-color comment lightly. I remember just about every negative thing my parents ever said to me, stuff that they've long forgotten.

I remember when my sister was a baby and crying a lot, as babies do, and I said to my mom, "Don't you wish you'd never had her?" (What? I was FOUR.) And she said, "Maybe I wish I'd never had you." This sent me into a fountain of tears, instantly. Probably not the most sensitive thing she could've said to me, but in retrospect she was trying to say "That's not nice, Miranda. What if someone said something like that to you?" What I heard, very clearly, was: "I wish I'd never had you." Years later, when I was still a kid, I reminded my mom of this incident and she said she didn't remember it, and would never have said that to me. But it's burned into my memory.

I cried a lot as a kid. Bedtime was often a source of tears, because I would lay in bed thinking about things, and end up mulling over something that upset me. (I've always been a poor sleeper; as far back as I can remember, it has always taken me an hour or more to fall asleep after going to bed.)

Once when I was a second-grader, I came out to the living room long after bedtime, in tears, and wailed to my parents that I had no best friend. All my friends seemed paired up with each other, and I was the odd one out. My dad, frustrated from many nights in a row of me coming out to the living room with sob-stories, made the grumpy retort: "Oh Miranda, why are you always thinking about things?" Again, the insensitive response of a tired parent, which I understand now that I'm an adult. At the time, I heard "I don't care about your problems, and you've made me angry by bringing them up." Again, etched into my memory forever.

These slips made by my parents were the exception, not the rule, of their parenting. On the whole they were very loving, supportive, everything good parents should be. But it just goes to show how much of an impact words can have on a sensitive child.

It's a lesson for me as a parent. My goal with Téa is to help her to be a more secure child than I was, and a more confident woman than I am.

Nightmares

My worst dreams are about Téa's skin. People tattooing her without my permission; her skin inexplicably torn and falling off in strips.

When she was born, before I saw her, the doctor told me that she had two "lesions"-- one on her face, and one on her hand. He used the word "lesion." My heart sank and I wondered what kind of disfigured monster I had created.

They showed her to me finally, and she had a beauty mark on her cheek. And a mark on the back of her left hand, that we thought must be a bruise, but it turned out to be a Mongolian spot. A greyish-blue birthmark. I still haven't forgiven that doctor for frightening me like he did.

What strikes fear into my heart is somehow marring this beautiful, perfect girl. I don't let her into the kitchen while I'm cooking. If I'm carrying hot coffee into the living room, I make the widest berth possible around her. I warm up her food and then wait till it's cold again before giving it to her. If she's out of my sight, worst-case scenarios start popping into my mind.

I can't help but think that somehow, someday, something is going to happen to her. I've lived a life of very few tragedies. I keep feeling like I'm due for one. I keep thinking, "I need to enjoy her as much as possible while I can; she may not live to be any older." I try to think how I would cope with it if she died. I read stories about babies her age dying-- I force myself to read them, and yet I can't help but read them with a morbid sort of gluttony, like they're some kind of horrifying pornography. Babies her age can die. They die all the time. They die so easily.

I examine her chubby, perfect body and think, "How easily this could be dead." A sick thrill of fear runs through me. I pray that she'll be spared, that somehow her delicate little body will survive this dangerous world unscathed.

Almost as much as I worry about her dying, I worry that I am doing everything wrong for her. That she'll end up developmentally delayed or autistic because of me. I worry about this every single day, almost constantly. I worry because my 11 month old isn't talking yet. She's not even close to the age where I should worry about her not talking.

She's a very happy child, seemingly intelligent, and does amazing, cute things like dancing, and is learning to clap, and babbles nonstop, and has started nodding while she does it, as if she's very convinced of what she's babbling about. She's incredibly active, and has taken her first steps. She's also very social; she smiles at people on the train and at the playground. She stares at people until they smile back at her. If she spends any time at all with new people, she'll crawl into their laps.

And still I worry. I feel like I'm a terrible mother. I'm actually, for the first time, starting to consider not having another child, because I don't feel good enough. I always thought we'd have another to round out the family, but things are hard enough with one. What makes me think I deserve another?

How I spent my summer vacation

Summer is quickly coming to an end and we survived. There were ups and downs, as there always are. But most importantly, we survived.

Highlights:

• Téa cut two teeth and is currently cutting her third. Teething is hell.
  
• I joined a Brooklyn moms group and actually met some other women. Slightly awkward since they were all about 10 years older than me and much wealthier, but socializing was still refreshing.
• I found a $50 bill on the ground.
  
• We went to Maine for a week. Téa and I went up alone on a midnight-to-8am bus ride, and she was very well behaved. It was absolutely wonderful to be around my family. However,
• I did not get invited to the wedding of one of my high school friends. There's been some drama between us, but it's long past, or so I thought. It hurt a lot, because EVERYONE else was invited and it would've been so great to see everyone again. I'm still bitter about that.
  
• The week after we went to Maine was one of the worst weeks I've had since Téa was born. I was ridiculously depressed and anxious. I'm still fighting off the depression, and I'm starting to wonder if it isn't PPD.
  
• The August heat wave was god-awful. Next summer we are getting AC, I don't care what it costs. I refuse to spend any more time in a humid 90-degree apartment with a sticky, grumpy child.
  
• One of the root causes of that horrible week was me fretting about starting work. Starting a new job always causes me ridiculous levels of anxiety; I hate doing things when I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing. And there was just no alleviating the anxiety until I had my first lesson with a student. I've now taught four lessons, and I feel completely better about it. It's actually fun, something I look forward to. It's nice to get out of the house.
• The day before yesterday, Téa took her first steps. Three in a row. She hasn't repeated it since, but she has been practicing standing up all on her own, which is very cute. Most of the time she'll stand up just so she can dance. She loves dancing, and actually has rhythm, which amazes us.
  
• Anthony started a part-time job. It's only 4 to 6 hours a week; on Wednesdays and Thursdays he goes to work early so he can go to his second job afterward, and comes home late. Both of us working part-time is great for our financial situation, but those long days are rough. Mothers were not meant to stay home alone with babies day in and day out with no friends or family. You know those stories of depressed moms who kill their children? Andrea Yates? Yeah, that all makes sense to me now.
  

Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to kill my baby, no matter how tempting it sometimes is. But there are times when I REALLY REALLY need a break, and there's no break in sight. My mom is hundreds of miles away. My best friends live several states away. My in-laws... let's not go there. But there is no help. And when Téa is teething, and it's hot, and I can't stop her crying, and I haven't showered in days, and it's been almost a year since I had a stretch of sleep more than a few hours... You see where I'm going with this. Sometimes (OFTEN) I think Anthony can't possibly appreciate what I do and how insane it is driving me.

And that's a whole other rant I don't want to get into.

Basically Téa's at that tough age where she's getting around like a toddler, but there's no communicating with her. I've heard this described as "legs without brains." I know toddlerhood marks the beginning of a tough stage of meltdowns and defiance, but I look forward to being able to communicate somewhat.

Anyway, like I said, we survived. And the summer heat has thankfully abated. We'll get into our groove, hopefully.