Category: Writing

Writing Day

This writing day is feeling a tad useless … or perhaps a better descriptive would be non-cathartic. It was interrupted by an appointment mid-morning, and I’ve spent the better part of what was left filling out grant applications. Not exactly exhilerating.

I had a revelation (apologies for navel-gazing; it could be a writing day theme) a couple of evenings ago when I was feeling quite low, just kind of sitting with this sadness inside of me, and realizing how many other people also sit with a sadness or a loss, and, wondering how to answer that feeling–and it came to me: often, the answer is in the healing power of song or a book or a movie. In other words, ART. Listening to, watching, reading, experiencing. It made this continuing effort to write feel more valuable. I have a hard time justifying my writing to myself, or thinking of it as anything other than purely decadent and self-indulgent, partly because it feels so good to do it (anything that feels this good must be bad!), and partly because it earns our family next to nothing. 
But imagine a world stripped of art’s beauty and honesty, without stories outside ourselves that remind us who we are or were or want to be. So that revelation was enough to keep me going–at least for now! Till I forget again and need reminding.
Here’s what I found in my journal, written a few days after baby CJ was born this spring. I read it over this morning, thinking about my friend Katie, who is waiting for the birth of her third child, and wanted to share it.
“Feeling immense sadness at this being my last time to experience this. It’s been a hard and long pregnancy, yet such a gift, a real gift, the kind we don’t deserve and accept knowing we are blessed. I wish you could see this round, perfect, smooth face, open mouth, asleep lying across my chest, skin perfectly coloured, hair indeterminate, his own unique self so new in the world. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’m so extremely happy, and simultaneously nostalgic for this passing/fleeting moment, that I just want to weep for the temporality of everything. We can pretend for a little while, here and there, that we can make something that will last; but all of life is temporal, fleeting, every stage, the good ones and the bad ones, and there is something about holding this brand-new perfect baby that makes me know for sure how true this is. How I can’t hold on. How I can only enjoy, enjoy, take in, love, exist; but not hold on. This doesn’t have to be terrible, does it? Just a mortal truth. Can I accept? And if I can, won’t I be a happier person? I could have another baby, but at some point it would be my last baby; and it could never again be my first. Life makes us move on, whether we like it or not.
Damned hormones!”
Yes, that was written about the same time my milk came in, which my midwife said usually comes along with tears, too. A general leaking, if you will. I was really struggling with that being my last birth experience. But right now, feel very much at peace with our decision. Four is enough, woman!
I had a difficult recovery after the birth, and found a list I’d made about two weeks on.
“Things I will do when well: Hang laundry. Go for evening walks with baby CJ. Walk the kids to school. Cook from scratch. Bake cookies. Walk uptown and to the library. Maybe even jog, with the kids on their bikes. Write. Fold laundry. Pick up toys. Do storytime for my kids. Play the piano. Go out dancing. Have a drink. Host a party. Go camping. Visit friends. Host friends. Buy new clothes. Clean the bathrooms. Go to book club. Sit outside in the sun. Yoga. Relish health.”
I loved coming across that list and realizing how many of those very ordinary things I do regularly now, and in fact, how routine life has become in the six months post-birth. Still haven’t gone out dancing, I’m sad to report. But so many of those activities are ones I take for granted–even complain about. (Okay, bathroom cleaning = hard to get excited about). But it’s good to be reminded otherwise.

Later

Apologies for the naval-gazing in previous post. Usually Kevin gets to suffer those thoughts; and trust me, those are thoughts I go round and round ad naseum, in some form or another, like, sigh, all the time. Years go by and I’m still going round them.

Or they’re going round me.

We have a new car! We are now a one-car family! But we upgraded. This vehicle actually seats seven normal-sized humans, with car seats too, which the minivan only pretended it was able to do. It sat six humans and one Gumby.

Whoops, my hamburger is cooking up faster than expected. Friday! We made it! And I’ve reached my exclamation point quota! My computer will shut me down if I use even one more!

Writing Day

Or writing morning and half an afternoon, to be more precise. It’s come to a natural end. My babysitter is about to leave, and I finished working on the story, so it’s blah blah blog time. This story is three years old. Amazing, but I wrote it the fall after F was born, and have tinkered with it unsuccessfully ever since. Think I solved the major problems today. This is a reminder of how incredibly patient the writing life requires one to be. It has to be, far and away, the toughest lesson to learn and to keep in mind when struggling to “be” a writer. Virtually nothing is immediate. That’s why writing this blog feels like cheating, somehow, way too easy.

I still put myself in quotation marks when it comes to the “writer” facet of my identity. I’m not sure what qualifies one, exactly, to claim to be a writer. Yah, I write things. I make things up and write them down. I’ve published a little bit, here and there, though not regularly. Does publishing make one a writer? Readers? Or can it be a pure pursuit of craft? Stephen Harper would likely see that as sinfully futile, pursuing something with absolutely no monetary or worldly value; but I can’t just throw blame on our prime minister, ’cause I feel that way sometimes too. Sometimes I wonder–if I were to write just one truly wonderful story in my entire lifetime of writing, would that satisfy me? Because, quite honestly, even one truly wonderful story would be a lot of ask for. But I’m not sure. Maybe being satisfied is the opposite of what I’m pursuing. Maybe satisfaction would kill the desire to try.

I spill words. I want to. They tumble out of me. I love putting them on the page and moving them around, playing with syntax, tense; it feels like play. The act of writing itself can occasionally be frustrating, but mostly, almost always, it’s happy time. I am taken out of myself. So maybe the end result is immaterial? Could that be true? I’m thinking in comforting cliches about the journey versus the destination.

But truthfully, that destination matters to me, too. Yes, I do want to write really wonderful stories. It’s almost terrifying to admit, and feels both arrogant and ridiculous all at once. Gives me the same feeling as those dreams where I’m wandering around naked (somewhere like a mall or downtown), not noticing until far too late.

Okay, wake up Carrie! Must, must, must get back into myself–and in time to organize for the school run. Tonight we’re also going to walk to the Rec Centre to get an idea how long this will take, because swim lessons start next Friday after school. After the Rec Centre run, I need to get to Nina’s buying club. And then make a fine plain supper out of frozen hamburger (Nina’s), leftover fresh tomato sauce (CSA), and ww macaronis (leftover from last night’s supper; not local).

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