NaBloPoMo 2010: Done and Done!

My kids don't recognize me, my marriage is in tatters, and I have eyes like cue balls in dark pits of ash.

But I posted something every single day for thirty days, dammit. After not being able to post anything for weeks. Months.

Was it worth it?

The short answer is "yes".

The long answer is "yes" as well. I'm too tired to write anything else.

It's not always easy being a writer. Sure, I almost never have problems coming up with a topic. And, yup, it's a breeze to write and write and write on that topic. When I write, I do get into The Zone and I could write until my fingers tuned to sawdust. I could write and forget about breakfast, lunch, dinner, and cocktail hour. I could write and write and write with my kids swinging from the chandeliers and the house burning down around me and a cat biting my ankle because his dish is empty. Again..

Which all gets back to the part where I don't write as much as I want to.

I don't get the chance to swim long and far in the deep water of words upon words after words because in my life right now, I'm a lifeguard, too, you see? I have to be fully involved in life more than I have the peace and space to step away and comment from the sidelines.

I'm a mom.

I'm a caretaker and manager of other people's lives.

And no, most kids aren't hothouse flowers, but fitting-in a marathon writing binge while putting forth even B+ mothering and holding down a part time job and dotting a million i's every's a neat trick. But not always a trick worth the falls and burned eyebrows.

I'm a wife, too.

And as much as I appreciate the whole Khalil Gibran spiel about being together but not drinking from the same cup and letting each other be alone, I get the feeling that this is probably less some prescription for a happy marriage and more a convenient excuse for good old Khalil to go out with they guys every night just as the gauntlet of putting young kids to bed had begun for Mrs. Gibran.

I will say that while writing this month, I did notice my husband becoming a bit more interested in me the way he used to be interested in me before the defacto interest in me was whether it was my turn to pick-up whosit from what activity and who was responsible for dinner tonight.

I recall an evening about seventeen years ago when my husband's most winning come on to me was, "You're a better writer than I am." And how, I suppose, that was his version of "You complete me". Or maybe that's what I heard.


When you get two writers together, words are important.

Not reading each other - literally - makes for a lonely week. A lonely life.

Even more lonely is reading your wife's blog and saying, "Hey, nice to see you again! Let's date!" and the wife responding with a wave of her hand because she's on a 2,348 word roll and see you sometime around 2 AM Mr. Halushki.

If there were five extra hours in the day, all would be well.

If there were five extra hours each day, I'd have enough time to do all the living I needed to do in order to be a good writer. But I'd also have the time to write about all the living I did. Which leaves me wondering...

Are the very best writers the ones who are so busy living intently every day that they have no time to write all their best stories about living so intently?

I don't know.

One of my writing professors told me that Tennessee Williams once said that if you want to be a good writer, get a job as a shoe salesman. Meaning, I supposed, shoe salesmen work hours conducive to being a writer; but, also meaning that shoe salesmen don't generally have a job that comes home with them every night.

Then again, who wants to read about shoes?

And there I go again. I started off saying I was tired and I just wanted to write something brief. Suddenly, I'm 694 words in without breaking a sweat, and I could go another 694 without coming up for air.

But my kids are all in bed.

And I haven't slept for weeks.

I haven't forgotten about the Nook posts and the questions in the comments, and I'll get to those.


Or another day.

I'm off to bed, to sleep, so I can wake well rested (for once)

And the words will begin again.

Thanks for putting up with the rambling, the quick posts, the no time for edits, and creative spelling, and the loose plot lines. It's hard to not having time to be a perfectionist. But I suppose it's the perfectionists that publish the least. 

At least in the blogging world.


Jenn @ Juggling Life said...

Your quickies are better than most peoples long-slaved-over efforts. Really. said...

Thank you, Jenn. Your check is in the mail. ;-)


It's Not Like a Cat said...

Did you know that December is NaBloPoMo II? And it's even more real than the November one? Don't stop.

Plus, can I just say I am totally fucking jealous that you have a husband who writes and appreciates writing and appreciates YOUR writing and gets turned on by your being turned on by the act of writing? That's rare good shit right there. Celebrate it.

Ice Mom said...

Congratulations on your achievement! It's been a joy reading your posts!

Now. Get some sleep! :)

Kath said...

Congratulations - it was great reading you again. And I hear you - I managed to write in The Zone only twice this month and it was thrilling - but impossible to sustain with kids who need attention. One can only hope that it will get easier as they get older.

But Jenn's right - even your quickies are wonderful. Hope you keep writing as circumstances allow. You have a gift, and it's part of what makes you... you.


jess said...

I agree with Jenn!

Julie said...

Well done, you! Your endurance is an inspiration, your brilliance a wonder. I sincerely loved the Halushki tour de force. Come back soon!

jennifer said...

Personally, I think you deserve a break until April. When it's a poem a day. Have you noticed they only pick the 30 day months for these things? ;)

apathy lounge said...

The longer I went without blogging...the easier it got. I missed it, but I also found that my writing got whinier. I'm back...but in short doses.

I can't find my blog said...

Thanks for doing NaBlo this year. I've missed you.

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