Almost 9 months after having a baby, and I feel like I am finally starting to get back my brain. Maybe just parts of my brain, but atleast it's the parts that are allowing me to be creative again.

I am writing again. It feels near a miracle. I've got this blog, which I am writing in, if not every day, then every couple of days or so. And I am writing outside of the blog, too. I'm writing a non fiction book-- well, I don't know if it's a book, yet. It's more like a cross between research and auto-biography. Okay, that's not quite right. I've been working on this idea of creativity for a long time. I believe that we can find balance in ourselves through creativity. We can get stronger. We can finally learn to speak. We can discover who we are. We can stand up where we used to fold. All this and even more through exploring our creativity.

I want to continue with this idea, but I've been struggling so hard to regain my creativity, my brain, my very identity (who am I? where am I? why am I?) that it's been a long road. But that is the same road that I think a lot of new mothers go down. So in essence, I've been using my own journey as a subject for my creativity book. I've been using the blog to get down some of my ideas, also.

But it's important to me that I also have something fictive going on. I've been writing in my journal for so long, that non fiction almost feels like a given. And the creativity book is like a cross between my journal and all the curriculum planning I did when I was a teacher. Really, all those how to books and self help books are just classes between two covers.

So, for myself, I've got my novel that I am fleshing out. What feels good about that is that the ideas are flowing and I am, well, excited about them. The ideas connect with ideas that I care about in my life. It's not just about a colony landing on another planet, it's also about history, and love, and individuality, and spirituality, and politics, and revolution. It's about sisters, even, and creativity, and passion. (And no, it's not hokey. Well written Science Fiction is just as good as other types of novels. [that is a note to myself and the literary snob imbedded in my brain])

I think one of the things that allowed me to get to this point in being creative again is that I did not put pressure on myself to be perfect and productive.

If I had gone into this period thinking that I could be on the writing schedule I was on when I was at the height of my writing, then I would have defeated myself way before I got here. No. I am not able to write 3 hours straight through. I'm not able to sit in a cafe and paint and write for an afternoon. I can't even seem to get the time to do all the daydreaming I once did to get the juices flowing.

But I can get myself in the head space of being creative: write every day. take the journal to the bathroom and write in it for a few minutes there. jot down some ideas for a novel without expecting any dialogue or a title or even a character to show up. surf the web looking for others who might be going through the same struggle, even though there's been no actual writing. doodle on a To Do list.

Relax if I'm not on a schedule. It's all part of the process. And this is a new world for me. When the baby cries, the writing stops.

Gotta go, baby crying.

Committed

So I have decided to write a novel in 100 days. I found a site that has tips and exercises to help you do it. I’ve got this idea for a novel—not a heavy, high art, post modern, literary novel. And don’t laugh, my brain says that’s what I should be writing. Or maybe it’s not my brain, maybe it’s my insecurity saying if I am not writing “literary” stories I’m a hack.

The reality is I read far more science fiction and fantasy than I do literary stories. Although I am so picky about what I read that I can only bear the very best sf/fantasy, so don’t read very many new writers. If my brain were simply my brain, without all my little-girl insecurities popping up, then I would quite logically be writing science fiction. So I won’t win the Nobel Prize for Literature, but I might have an easier time getting published. I might even be able to have a real career. Plus, I actually am a good writer, and a good writer in genre fiction has a fighting chance. Grrr. Warrior Girl.

However, as you can see, I am still trying to convinve myself that genre writing is worth while. I’m going to choose to ignore that perfectionist, elitist attitude lurking below the surface of my skull, and just have fun.

Hmm. Having fun while writing… it’s been a while since I looked at it like that, let alone did it. I put too much weight on it, unlike when I was a kid and was writing for pure enjoyment.

Ofcourse, in order to finish a big task like a novel, you have to do it more than just for fun, because if you’re focused on the “fun” part, if you aren’t in the mood, or are very busy or stressed or tired, then it’s really easy to say, awww, I’ll do it later, or not tonight, or I don’t feel like it.

Commitment is the key. You have to commit to writing. So I am going to commit to writing this only vaguely imagined novel. I am going to commit even though I said I was going to revise my novel from 10 years ago that I finished the first draft of. I am not throwing away the poor neglected first draft, no. I am just choosing to focus on this one, for now. For 100 days. I am going to commit, right now. In fact, that is the first day task on my 100 days assignment. I am on day 2, actually. And that task is to carve out a specific time for writing.

That’s a tougher prospect for a mother of a baby. I think what I’m going to have to do is get Sean to watch the baby in the morning when he first gets up. I’ll take a shower and dress quickly then, instead of waiting for first nap. That will leave first nap open for writing. Atleast, unless he drops the nap or does some other random thing that mucks up my schedule, like teething or getting sick.

I will also try to force myself to write at night, after the baby goes to sleep. I will try to ignore the “I’m so tired” echoing through my head. Good luck to me.

See more progress on: write and publish a novel

A Mom's Writing Group? (And Dad's too, ofcourse.)

Another mom from my playgroup asked if I knew anything about writing groups, because she wanted to start writing a short story and wanted to find a group.

Ha ha ha. Such a question.

I told her that not only have I taken writing groups, but I also have created them and led them, both for teenagers and for adults.

We started talking about how we would manage to do a writers group with the babies. Moms are too tired to join and be creative at night. How confusing and crazy it would be to do a group with the babies running around. What kind of options would we have? Should we hire a babysitter during the group to watch the babies, but also allow the moms to keep the babies? They could go back and forth between mom and babysitter.

Then I started thinking, new moms have short attention spans and do a lot of multi tasking. They are tired. They don’t have a lot of free time. But they are also dealing with a life that is hugely changing—their identities, their activities, their emotions (thanks hormones). A lot of moms need to have adult company and conversation. A lot of moms need something just for themselves, to remember that they are not just baby feeders. Many moms are also starving to be creative.

A moms writing group would have to consist of short activities. I would definitely be using journals for this. Journals that we could write in during those free spare moments. I would also gear the class towards the individual moms and what their long term goals were. Do they want to keep track of their baby’s babyhood? Do they want to write a novel? Do they want to explore what it means to be a mom? Do they want to write short stories for themselves? to get published? Do they want to write poetry?

It would have to be 15 minute exercises during the sessions, probably in the journals. Each mom would have goals for writing that week. They would photocopy their pages and bring them in for the other moms to read—not during the meeting, but during the next week. There would have to be a limit to how many pages we expect the moms to read during the week. During the meetings, we would comment upon what we read that week. We would also talk about being creative, and the difficulties, solutions, joys.

This is just brainstorming, but I know I should just go ahead and put it together. We could meet in a cafe. We could meet in the park if it was nice. We could even meet in a bar—during the day when it was slow. Many have quiet backrooms. We could meet in my apartment (but then I’d have to seriously babyproof and keep the damn place clean). Shoot, we could meet in a different place every week.

I wonder if I should charge for this. I mean, it’s kind of my business, isn’t it. But then I get all insecure about charging. Despite the degree in creative writing, the degree in teaching, the experience as a professional teacher, the years I have spent creating and leading workshops of all creative manner, the research and writing I have done on the subject of creativity—despite all that, I still feel like I am faking a little, when it comes to asking for money. D’oh!

See more progress on: start a writing group

Push Through

I found my novel. The one I wrote when I was 25-- TEN years ago! I wrote the first draft and then put it away when I decided to become a teacher. Over the course of life and moving and cleaning and all that stuff, I forgot where it was. Thought I might even have let a friend read it-- one who moved to Costa Rica-- so there was a possibility it was disappeared, but yesterday, while cleaning the book case, I found it!

Lately I've been thinking about it, much more so than the novel I had been working on more recently. If the old novel still held my attention, but the new one didn't, I was a little concerned. Maybe the new story wasn't really the one I should be telling. Maybe I should go back to the old-- except I didn't know where it was.

So now that it's been rediscovered, maybe it's time to reread, re-evaluate, re-write.

Guess what's been happening along those lines?

Everytime I sit down at the computer to rewrite the old novel, I get SO-O-O tired.

But I am not that easily fooled. I know the tactics that the brain uses to keep the nice, comfy, safe, status quo. It throws all sorts of obstacles in the way. Those obstacles might be real or they might be made up, it really doesn't matter, the point is that they stop you from doing all that hard work that will get you all the scary things in life that you really, really want.

My mind tells me that I am tired, or have a headache, or have to organize my photos, or clean the sink-- which is when you really know it's my brain trying to mess with me, because there is no way I actually WANT to wash dishes.

That's when you have to push through. I've tried it. It really does work. But what it does take is commitment to that thing. I have to commit to writing, rather than commit to being tired.

In the long run, having written will make me feel better about myself, happier, more energetic, etc, than being tired and zoning in front of the tv. That may be the easier option, but really, it isn't the best.

So next time I sit down to the computer, after whatever long hard day trying to figure out what a non verbal ball of laughs and tears wants, I'm going to push through the "I'm tired" and just do it.

Yes

I'm going to try something today. Maybe for longer than just today. You see, I spend a lot of my energy and my time saying "no." There are many ways to do this, not just the simple no. There's, "I can't." There's "I don't want to." There's "I don't have the time/energy." There's also, "I don't feel well." I'm sure if I think about it, I can find other ways to say no, considering I've been doing it for so long and am so good at it.

Instead, I am going to say YES. I am going to be open to the possibilities of the world and the word. Instead of backing away out of fear of not being good enough or fear of the unknown, or whatever it is that makes me turn away from life, I am going to say, "okay, sure, why not."

Things open up when you say yes. Possiblities, projects, people, experiences. You. And it takes practice, too, but the more you get used to saying yes, the easier it is to say yes.

Let me be clear: this is not the same yes that is said to people please and over commit. This isn't the flaky yes, where you jump from one thing to the next, without ever committing to any of them. This is the yes of going deep. This is the yes of going down the path that you have chosen. This is the yes of not being frightened by what might come of those choices you have made. This is the yes of the warrior.

Grrrr! Arrgh!

I will face my life with joy. I will attack my challenges with love. I will say "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

Finding Authority

There are a few things I've learned over the last dozen, maybe fifteen years of my life. One of the most important lessons, though, is about authority.

Strange, for me at least, child of counter culture bohemians, but authority is a big deal. I was raised to distrust "the man." "The man" was out to get us. It was us against "the man." I've always had problems with authority because of it. And then add in the fact that, while my dad was railing against the injustices of those in authority, he was also the authority in our house-- and he abused his power.

Authority has always made me uncomfortable. I have always been comfortable living my life in the shadows, out of view of "the man," unnoticed, just messing around with the things I like to do. Tralala lala, I am just a little girl making art and writing, on her own, don't bother with me.

However, it turns out, that you can not hide from authority your whole life, particularly when you have ambitions to do or be anything.

The hardest authority to deal with is your own.

I ran smack dab into my own authority when I started teaching High School. It's funny, really, I went in there, trying to convince my students that I knew what I was talking about... no, not trying to convince, no, I was asking them to give me permission to be the authority in the class.

Now, anyone who's had any dealings with teenagers knows that's not the way to get teenagers to listen to you. The first day of teaching, and instead of the kids worshipping at the altar of my genius, they were trying to convince me that they knew more about teaching, about school, about English, about reading, about kids, more about myself than I did. Day two, and I had to start all over again.

It must've taken me a year or two before I realized that you don't sit around waiting for someone to give you authority, you take it. You ARE it.

Power is one thing. Someone else can give you power-- as a teacher, I had the power to pass or fail kids, the power to give them detention. I didn't have the power to make them do work, or stop talking, or try at something that scared them.

Authority is inside, it's believing in yourself. Authority is putting yourself forward as one who knows, one who creates, one who sets down the rules that keep us secure in our own being. Authority inspires others into action. Authority isn't the scary thing that I thought it was as a girl.

I want to draw on my authority as a writer and artist more. I want to believe that I have a right to be that creator. That I have a right to be read and seen-- that I have something to say that people should know.

It's the same thing. I can't wait for some body else (editor, publisher, dean, boss, boyfriend,)to say, yes, Rowena, you are the authority (writer, teacher, mom, artist, etc.)

Authority comes from inside, from belief in yourself and your skills. Authority is how you take control of your own life. Authority is about authorship. I am the author of my own life.

Woo Hoo!

Here in Brooklyn, it's 63 degrees already, and it's only 10:30 in the morning.

Dare I hope that Spring is here?

It's only early March, and March is a tricky, tricky month-- doling out little bits of Spring and then blanketing the country in icy cold. Maybe. See, we can always hope for the end of Winter, because every once in a while, at least here in New York City, Spring really does start this early. Every once in a while, and that gives us hope.

But, I recognize that it probably won't stick. I will have to ride the rollercoaster of Spring in the city. Just enjoy the highs, and endure the lows.

Actually, I prefer the metaphor of the wave. A lot like life, and learning to ride that wave, you really have to give up control. And it's not just about "enduring" the lows, but about understanding them and accepting them. It's a zen thing, and somehow, it makes me feel like I am closer to life.

I don't know how to surf. I'm such a pale, artsy, city girl-- and if I am in nature, it's more likely the woods that show my character, but I respect the power of the ocean, and the metaphor calls to me.

For instance, sometimes, as a mom, it's just a whirlwind of giggles and songs and dancing and long walks. At other times, and endless stretch of sleepless, cranky crying and yelling (me, not the baby). Sometimes productivity is up, sometimes it devolves into a puddle of couch-potatoness.

But that's okay. It's a part of the process. I don't necessarily believe that those lows are bad, nor should they be eradicated. I'm looking to find the value of the down times. Like sleep is necessary, to recharge the mind and body, to dream. Or like winter is necessary, as a fallow period, life draws back into itself, so that it can be reborn, recharged, renewed.

A Bunch of Baby Centered Stuff

Today was a mom day. That was where all my attention went. Into Gabriel, feeding, nursing, napping, laundering his clothes, going to his baby group, playing, laughing, pajamaing... all sorts of baby centered stuff.

Gabriel is learning some new things. He's learning to commando crawl--scooting around on his belly, grabbing at toys and cats and other things that he shouldn't be grabbing. He's trying to stand. He climbs up on my knee, or on his stuffed black panther (who is life sized).

He also did this funny thing when I was feeding him sweetpotatoes. First off, he did the yummy dance-- where he rocks his head back and forth. It's not random, he does it when he likes the food, and it goes along with the song. Sometimes it's the "Banana Dance" song, sometimes it's the "Happy Apple" song, or "Happy Pears", today it was the "Sweet Potato" song. They all have the same tune, and I dance with him. Oh, yeah, and there's the "Yo Baby, Yo Baby, Yo Baby Yo," dance, too. There is no green beans dance, nor is there an avocado dance. I'm working on the vegetables.

Then he was opening his mouth for the spoon, and he said, "OHHHH--MMP", every time the food came. I realized this was the sound I was making so he would open his mouth, and he was copying me.

All right, I'm being goofy, but he hasn't done that stuff before. And he had a new laugh, not his regular laugh, ahee hee hee-- but rather a heheheheh. I'm silly, but it was still cute.

We went to our Babies Group today. We had fun. He commando crawled around and played with his little friends. Playing consists of chewing on eachother's toys, sometimes chewing on eachother's fingers, grabbing noses and toes. He has occassionally kissed another baby on the cheek-- when he was into the kissing. They also spend a lot of time just looking around at the other babies and moms.

I spent some time talking to the other moms (and one dad). We talked about lots of things-- like what they ate, and teeth, sleep habits, crawling. (Also adult things like renting in Williamsburg, babysitters, art studios, and returning, postpartum periods, although we only talked about that one after the dad left.)

I guess I spent a week caught up in my own head, because I was starting to feel as if Gabriel was falling behind. Then I started worrying that maybe something might be wrong with him. I know that he is small, and that he fell off his weight gain, and maybe that's what I was transferring onto other things. Like him not having any teeth, or not being able to get to sitting up on his own, or not being able to put the cheerios in his own mouth.

Turns out I was getting stupid paranoid. It's all normal. Teeth is no biggie, and neither is the other stuff. One of the moms is an occupational therapist, and she knows the milestones. Ofcourse, she might now them a little too well for her own good, since she thinks she is getting a little wound up about everything. So there's a danger in having no information, as well as in having too much info.

It really was a mom day-- in my head as well as in the activities. And that's fine. There is room still for me to take Rowena time and do what I want to do for myself. Maybe I'll take tomorrow as a writing day.

I'm really looking forward to the Spring, when we can go out to the playground and the park. When he is just a little bit older, and a little bit more mobile and independent. It's so strange that Gabriel, and all his friends are getting to be real little people. Soon they'll be old enough to express themselves, to take up activities, to have real friends. I just know that there is going to be a ball team or two. I feel like it's only just getting interesting-- the mommy job, that is.

Making the Bed, Making the Bed

It's a day to mark down in history-- I have made the bed, first thing in the morning EVERY DAY THIS WEEK!

I've swept the floor, I've put away the co-sleeper, I've packed away the recycling. I'm still working on the dishes. But then, the dishes never ever ever end.

See, I am working on it. I am working on my slobbiness. My name is Rowena, I am a slob. Of course, I'm not working on it THAT hard. I wouldn't want to go against my nature. Plus, I found a quote that makes me feel a little bit better about that there slobby nature.

A clean house is a sign of a life misspent.
-anon

It's a reminder to me about how I don't need to get down on myself for not keeping the place immaculate. I'm doing better, but the apartment is by no means Martha Stewart ready. I would be happy if it didn't embarrass me when I got deliveries.

With the boy now learning how to crawl, though, I have to step up on some of that slobiness. The dishes can stay where they are, he can't reach them, but I have to get down on the floor and clean it up of all possible choking habits. I really should go through all the book cases and check them out to make sure there aren't baskets of beads or little gewgaws. I'm a collector of little gizmos and fiddle faddle. Little pretty things just fascinating enough and small enough to go into an inquisitive mouth. It's an incentive to clean things up.

And if you've noticed, I've also managed to write in my blog almost everyday for quite a while. I don't think the bed making and the blog writing are coincidental.

I have a life to step back into, man. I've got things to do, places to go, babies to feed.

Off Duty

I am off duty, now. Yes, off duty from even sleeping baby watch. Sean is out with his friends, and he has the boy. We went out to a late lunch/early dinner, and the boy was kind of out of it, compared to his afternoon of commando crawling around the apartment grabbing at toys, cats, faces, and the Sunday Times indiscriminately and laughing gleefully.

Sean said, "he's gonna go to sleep as soon as we put him in the stroller, and then I can walk you and the boy home." The implication being that I would then be on sleeping baby duty and he would be free to go out and tra la la with the guys. I said. "Who said I'm going home?" since this was supposed to be my choice, whether I took off and did something on my own or stayed with they guys.

Truth was, I was already past the small window of opportunity when I had the energy to go out and do something, maybe go into Manhattan and read magazines in Barnes and Noble, my usual exciting solo activity. I really was planning on just going home and crashing or something. Watch tv, surf the web, whatever. Sean probably knew that, but that is all besides the point.

It was my opportunity to have a free evening, and gosh darn it, I was going to take it, and he was going to watch the boy. That's right.

So I left the restaurant before the boy went to sleep, he was still fussing and reaching for Papa. I left them with a bottle of formula, which we've never used a though I have no idea if Gabriel will actually take the stuff. I just left.

To prove myself wrong, I stopped at a couple of boutiques to window shop, got all gushy over non-diaper carrying purses and earrings that I can't wear lest the better part of my earlobe be left in a banana covered baby fist. I also stopped at an art gallery.

Yes, I could do that, since I didn't have a stroller keeping me at the lower end of a steep set of brownstone stairs. I went in and went upstairs, and looked around at the art that looked much more interesting from a distance than it did up close. But that was just me, as I am not much into pop art, and this was covered in images from dirty Japanese animation. The dirty part doesn't bother me. It might be the animation part-- or it might be that my brain has turned into moldy swiss cheese and I just couldn't stand for very long infront of it in contemplation. I did however really like a painting they had in the back room, where they keep past exhibitors. Come to think of it, this was also based in a kind of animation style, but I just liked it better.

I'd like to be painting again. How do I get back into it while fighting the exhaustion, the squished (or swiss) cheese brain, the 15minute attention span, the thirty thousand things I have to do at home, the demanding baby needing tending? Oh, yeah, and the need to keep dangerous little things out of the path of a curious, commando crawling baby with banana covered fists-- when my studio is also his playroom?

Ah, the dilemmas.

At least I get to be off duty for a while.