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One thing about motherhood, especially when your child is young, is it does not leave a lot of time for writing or rather it seriously crimps the ability to reflect then write then rewrite.

I find myself in a conundrum where I have been before – it is walking a delicate balance between writing for sustenance and writing for substance. I am taking on jobs where the pay is skimpy because I’m chasing the bills. A friend of mine was here the other night and he said as an artist that is the worst place to find yourself in because inevitably you will take work that pays before you will do work that has meaning.

So I’ve carved out time to write my book and I post on my blogs as often as possible – sometimes just posting photos or a quick status update. I feel strongly that posting on social media robs my blogs of their rhythm and thought process, and yet I do it. Yesterday, I applied for an Amtrak writer in residency. And for that reason, I evaluated my social media currency and found it wanting. I tweet about race and parenting, I write about it, I tweet about Tin, me and New Orleans, I write about a woman’s self-actualization and now the double whammy of motherhood thrown into that mix. I think about media and I write about it (along with other industries), and tweet about it.

I ask myself constantly, am I doing enough? And the answer is always no.

A serious writer would eat her young? Right? Write? Yesterday, my five year old decided to act like a two year old and so I spent my day, with laryngitis mind you, being the ENFORCER. I plucked him out of the booth at Houston’s and dragged him to the car rather than sit through an angry meal. I put him in time out in his room after he refused to pick up one of the many toys strewn throughout this house. And then I put him to bed without a book after he emptied two full bottles of shampoo and conditioner into the bathtub. Really, I was on the verge of gnashing my teeth since I couldn’t scream out having lost my voice. And then I saw this, a photograph of a structure (or sculpture, someone compared it to an Erik Johnson piece) he built in kindergarten – the expression of it took my breath away.

I had watched the documentary about Alice Walker, where her daughter’s rift with her is brought to the fore [was she a negligent mother?] – they are in a public standoff – a writer will forsake her family to work on what matters. What matters?

Sunday, on the way to take Tin to a movie for him – ahem – Tin was fussing in his carseat and I spotted a riot of yellow wildflowers lining the canals along Clearview Parkway – vernal pools of the south – and I said look, look, at the beautiful yellow wildflowers! He continued to fuss and we dipped around an overpass, and came upon another swath of bright mustard yellow and he said, look, LOOK, there’s more!

I desperately need a writer’s retreat to push through my book – Amtrak, please answer my prayers – and I also have to constantly remind myself to trust the process. If I have to growl at my cub for shooting the dog with the bow and arrow (sucker tips, not points, people, please) or for leaving his room and house a wake of half broken toys, and for not showing good manners in a restaurant (he told me later he wasn’t hungry, harumph) or for emptying out the contents of expensive hair products, then so be it.

Sticky notes, posters, chalk board writing, journals surround my space to remind me how to live, how to be, how to trust the process. Just two days ago, I assumed a new way to greet each morning by saying: today something wonderful is going to happen – and for this reason alone, I will spare his young life.

This entry was posted on Monday, March 10th, 2014 at 4:55 am and is filed under Main. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.