Distraction

Today was a distracted day.  I finished writing through the end of chapter 5 in book two, but it took me literally all day.  I woke up late and made my daughter eggs because she looked cute and asked me with huge puppy dog eyes.

And then I sat down with very good intentions and listened to my husband's phone calls for a couple of hours while I stared at the same paragraph over and over and willed it to make sense in my head.  He has a very loud and penetrating phone voice that I can hear from clear out in the yard, bless his heart.  And then my darling daughter came in and asked for a bath - which means that she wet her pants.  So I gave her a bath.

 Then I realized I was hungry and went to the kitchen for carrots and hummus and tea while Jane bathed.  After my snack, I thought I should start dinner.  So I made a stew and garlic bread.  Then I sat down again and actually wrote a few pages.  Tea is magic juice, folks.  The toddler bathed for a long while, and my husband mowed grass.  A lawnmower is kind of a nice thing to hear in the background while you write.

But if you recognize this rodent, you'll gather how the rest of the day went.  In between dressing my toddler and getting her food and listening to her questions and her reports on what the cat was doing and how her tummy felt and what her poop looked like and listening to my husband's afternoon phone calls (my other kids have "borrowed" and "lost" my earbuds, which means I will not see them again in this world), I managed to obsess over the fate of one character and force an end to the chapter.  I will probably rewrite it later.

And though my very strong natural inclination is to smack my head repeatedly for giving in to the distractions around me and accomplishing much less today than I should have done, I am giving myself a congratulations sticker.  There are eight pages (seven and a half if we're picky) in the world now that did not exist this morning.  And eight pages are a lot more than I write on the days when I throw my hands up and let the distractions win entirely.  One day, I'll look back on my distractions and laugh.

Or write.

Dear Jane

Dear Jane,
Last night, I took you to McDonald's.  You are three, and going there is a big deal.  You got a chicken nugget happy meal with fries and an orange drink and sliced apples, which were the only things you didn't touch.  You talked and chair-danced to Motown and laughed and climbed all over the play place.

Right now, you are potty training.  You are really fascinated with the ritual of going and wiping and flushing and washing your hands.  Going at McDonald's is fun, because they have loud hot-air dryers for your hands.  But it is also scary, because they don't have tiny potties, and you are afraid to fall in.  So I kneel in front of you and hold you in a kind of hug while you go so that you are safe.

I am trying not to laugh at the noises you make as you try to poop.  You are really serious about being a good girl and keeping your pants clean.  But all of a sudden, holding you this way with your face resting against my face and your arms around my neck and my hands holding your back prompts a memory of me sitting this way on a hospital toilet while your dad held me with his face against my face and my arms around his neck and his hands holding my back while I felt the worst pain of my life so far.

I remember how necessary being held was right then and how frightened I was that something would go wrong.  I remember wishing for a mother and crying along with the other pains and fears that I didn't have a mother to comfort me.  I remember all of my modesty and careful pretense utterly deserting me as I sobbed and breathed.

And as I held you tonight and heard your almost-baby breathing so close to my ear, I thought: Twenty years, maybe thirty years from now, you will be straining like this with your own child.  And I will be so glad to hold you just like this if you need me.  Whatever happens between us while you are growing up, I will be there to kneel in front of you in that painful and purposeful embrace to soothe you and keep you safe.

Love, Mom

The many ways I have screwed up

The paperback version of Dawn Hyperdrive and the Galactic Handbag of Death launched yesterday.  And while I'm grateful it's out and excited to reach a whole bunch of people who eschew e-readers on principle, the process of launching it has showed me yet again that the flaws in my psyche which I thought had tucked their tails and run are still with me.  And I'm going to trot them out for you, digital reader, whoever you are, if you exist, primarily because I want to warn myself against them again and send them running for a while if I can.

The biggest one is pride.  When I imagined becoming a published author, I assumed I would have people.  You know what I mean - the people actors in bad eighties movies meant when  they said, "I'll have my people call your people."  Part of me is surprised that I don't have agents and publishers and their minions banging down my door and begging to register my ISBNs, enter orders for my books at the printer, and arrange distribution.  And the more I let that pride spread its tail feathers in my soul, the less I'll be willing to say, "I don't know how this works.  I don't understand this process.  I am willing to learn.  I am willing to do whatever needs to be done."  I need to remember that I'm not a big shot.  I'm my own minion.

I'm also stubborn.  If I get an idea in my head, I don't let it go.  For instance, I got an idea in my head that before I did anything else for the print edition, I needed to see a proof.  I needed to go through a physical book in my hand to find all of the errors.  Only when the physical book in my hand was perfect could I register it, find out how to sell it, link Paypal accounts to widgets, and look at all of the rest of the work that needed to be done.  Because I let my stubbornness bray in the corners of my soul like a mule, I ended up doing things that could have been done months ago all at the last minute.

Boy, turtles are ugly.  Their heads look like snake heads, and they've got gross claws and yucky feet.  But what this guy is doing is totally me.  When I feel pressure, I tuck inside a shell.  I don't talk to anyone, even to people who could help.  I don't want to bother them.  They're busy.  I can do this myself.  I'll think about it later.  This kind of thinking really sets me back.  And I will be much happier when I can lift my head up and talk, when I can say out loud, "I need help.  I want you to help me.  I am really far behind, and I don't know what to do next."

I may not have people, in the sense of soulless ciphers that exist to do my bidding, but I do have friends and partners around me.  Like all human beings, I'm a herd animal.  I can ask for advice.  I can tell the rest of the herd what's happening.  I can let other people check my stubbornness and hubris and blind self-effacement.

Until I get a publishing deal - then I'll have people.

Shut up.
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