(no subject)
been reading from this blog over the past few days. whenever i stumble upon the work of a woman writer/poet who is also a mother, i tend to cling to it, reading between the lines, trying to decipher how i will be able to write as a mother, if i will be able to. reading, too, ann lamott's 'operating instructions' and waiting for maso's 'the room lit by roses: a journal of pregnancy and birth' from the library.
since i've been home all week, i've been reading a lot more in general (in addition to the above, a book on john cage & zen buddhism & modern/postmodern art & music, a book on fermented foods/beverages of all kinds) and writing in my paper journal every day. sure, there's still knitting and walking and baking (maybe some cinnamon apple granola today?), but i'm liking the company of words. thinking about this journal. thinking about how i haven't really figured out its purpose since i've lost touch with most of the people who once read it. there's the other, too, the pregnancy blog - will that turn baby blog? it's easier to share baby photos/news in a somewhat private way on facebook than on a blog.
they say that, to break into the writing industry these days, you need to tweet. you need to blog. you need to have a Web Presence. but i find it far easier to write on paper than to write here. easier in the sense of freedom. here, there's always the hint of shading, hiding names and places and specifics to protect the innocent. when it's the specifics that make the scenes and stories what they are. i actually had the idea of going back to the paper journals and writing from the past on a blog, creating an online journal from my self of three or five or seven years ago, names changed, of course, but something with my words and feelings a little more raw than i feel i can do in real time. partially as an experiment in retrospect. partially, yes, to 'get my name out there.'
i read these books, these blogs, these poems, of women writers, women getting paid to write or teach writing, and i know that i can write just as well. i know it in my fingers, in my bones, in my blood. i just have no gift whatsoever for putting my self and my words in the right place, the right light, the right outfit with the right witty opening remark and the right cocktail. mark & i were talking last night about raising teenagers. he said that every time someone presented him with expectations, he got angry. he wanted to rebel, to prove that he could do whatever he wanted, and that's why he didn't follow trends in high school. i responded that i didn't choose to be different - i just didn't know how not to be. i didn't know how to be trendy, to dress or talk or behave as They did, and so i was unique by default. it wasn't an act of courage - it was just all i knew how to do.
and today - today is our due date. i still have trouble finding a sleeping position in which i can breathe some nights. my belly grows, my belly button flattens. my hips creak and ache. the baby stretches and shifts and taps out morse code from the depths. but no signs of labor. just the endless calm before the storm.
since i've been home all week, i've been reading a lot more in general (in addition to the above, a book on john cage & zen buddhism & modern/postmodern art & music, a book on fermented foods/beverages of all kinds) and writing in my paper journal every day. sure, there's still knitting and walking and baking (maybe some cinnamon apple granola today?), but i'm liking the company of words. thinking about this journal. thinking about how i haven't really figured out its purpose since i've lost touch with most of the people who once read it. there's the other, too, the pregnancy blog - will that turn baby blog? it's easier to share baby photos/news in a somewhat private way on facebook than on a blog.
they say that, to break into the writing industry these days, you need to tweet. you need to blog. you need to have a Web Presence. but i find it far easier to write on paper than to write here. easier in the sense of freedom. here, there's always the hint of shading, hiding names and places and specifics to protect the innocent. when it's the specifics that make the scenes and stories what they are. i actually had the idea of going back to the paper journals and writing from the past on a blog, creating an online journal from my self of three or five or seven years ago, names changed, of course, but something with my words and feelings a little more raw than i feel i can do in real time. partially as an experiment in retrospect. partially, yes, to 'get my name out there.'
i read these books, these blogs, these poems, of women writers, women getting paid to write or teach writing, and i know that i can write just as well. i know it in my fingers, in my bones, in my blood. i just have no gift whatsoever for putting my self and my words in the right place, the right light, the right outfit with the right witty opening remark and the right cocktail. mark & i were talking last night about raising teenagers. he said that every time someone presented him with expectations, he got angry. he wanted to rebel, to prove that he could do whatever he wanted, and that's why he didn't follow trends in high school. i responded that i didn't choose to be different - i just didn't know how not to be. i didn't know how to be trendy, to dress or talk or behave as They did, and so i was unique by default. it wasn't an act of courage - it was just all i knew how to do.
and today - today is our due date. i still have trouble finding a sleeping position in which i can breathe some nights. my belly grows, my belly button flattens. my hips creak and ache. the baby stretches and shifts and taps out morse code from the depths. but no signs of labor. just the endless calm before the storm.