Monthly Archives: July 2012

Writing, sculpting

Photo credit: Writing and whittling

I am encouraged by the good feedback from friends and family on my first column on mothering and motherhood, particularly by those who are ornery readers. (Family and friends are usually not good first readers.)

I ride on the momentum. Words do beget words. I finished a post for my other blog, which I hope will take off soon. I just have to write more and identify my focus for that blog.

I agree with Elie Wiesel, that writing is like sculpting:

Writing is not like painting where you add. It is not what you put on the canvas that the reader sees. Writing is more like a sculpture where you remove, you eliminate in order to make the work visible. Even those pages you remove somehow remain.

I am a writer. Hear me roar!


Word becomes flesh

I attended a book launch. And something inside stirred. A dream reborn. As Hubby drove us home, I said, “I’d really like to write a book.” He said, “This year?” I was unnerved by the immediacy of his deadline. “Yes. No. Yes.” I said. I wasn’t too worried about my answer. I know I meant yes.

So, yes.


Them bones

Photo credit: Rethinking the past

Thinking of writing a memoir. But how far can I go without hurting those I love? Bernard Shaw said, “If you cannot get rid of the family skeletons, you may as well make it dance.”


A writer who mothers, a mother who writes*

I wrote my first column on mothering and motherhood. Only 536 words. I agonized over them all afternoon. While I played tea party with my three-year-old, wearing a hat and saying the right things that made her laugh and snuggle close to me, my thoughts chased after words. I was overwhelmed by all that I had to say, by the ordinariness of all I felt.

Sometimes writing is like picking a scab: painful, grotesque, self-mutilating, but you just gotta.

This is part of that column:

I write because mothering is charged with loves, hates and raptures too big for thought and too fast for the heart. Writing connects me to parts of myself engulfed by deadlines or harassed by the day’s cares. I look for words to shape thoughts, so that each day falls into place, sometimes painfully, sometimes joyously. Like all mothers, I am a fractal art—color geometrics that are difficult to pin down, irregular but harmonious, a mix of order and chaos, creative, requiring effort and intelligence, and mostly better appreciated from a distance.

* Borrowed from Lisa Garrigues’ wonderful Writing Motherhood

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28 days of self-care

It is overwhelming to consider how much of an overhaul I need, so I thought of breaking change into chewable, 15-minute bits. And because I like nice little numbers, let’s do what the wonderfully creative and helpful Stephanie Zamora ( ) suggests: 28 days of self-care.

Three things I’d love to do in the next 28 days:

  1. Morning pages or invisible writing–15 minutes of seat-of-my-pants writing that allows me to unfetter my thoughts and cast my cares to the page. Never mind the inevitable ranting–it’s the kind of garbage that I need to purge myself of each day. Great exercise to exorcise the imp of an editor off my shoulder.
  2. Do something creative–to make me more mindful, jumpstart the juices, be fully present and expressed.
  3. Write or ponder on a story–writing builds on the momentum. May the words beget more words.

Life in fifteen-minute chunks. How hard can that be? Hopefully not as much.