Part 2: The Birth of a Writer

People who know me are constantly saying they, "don't know how I do it." Some have even asked me how I do it, meaning how do I raise a family, work a day job, be an active part of the community and find the time to write. I've found this a hard question to answer as there's no real "how" to it, and "because I have to" doesn't convey anymore information than replying to the question, "who are you?" with, "I'm me."

I began writing and drawing at a young age. I bore my own children young, birthing my first at 20. There was a period of 10 years where my writing and my children shared scant space. My writing starved, but my children thrived and my creativity found outlet in changing knitting patterns and sewing quilts, adding my own mark to everything I made. This happened for many reasons, not because I was sacrificing myself for my children, but rather I couldn't figure out how writing fit into the mold of who I was supposed to be, what I thought was excepted. I didn't know how to be both and would later find I didn't in fact know myself.

During my abstinence, my writing obstinately tried to break out of the drawer where I'd shoved it; calling to be set free - to breath. And when I could no longer resist, I began the physical act of writing again, embarking on a surprising journey of self-discovery leading to more than a half-starved writer. It was the beginning of an inner awakening, the realization of who I was and it resulted in my becoming the whole person I was born to be in more ways than one. Along with this came the knowledge of how close I'd been to losing myself permanently, my identity and how deeply I'd been buried. One can't discard or reject a part of ones self without consequences and I'd been doing that for years - every time something about who I was didn't fit into the perception of who I should be. We tell our children they can be anything they want - but do we actually mean it. Does society really support it?

I don't regret this time, it simply was. When I think of the path my life might have followed if I'd kept writing when I was first married and had children I know my writing would not me the same as it is now - it would lack the depth and knowledge of my experiences within the drawer. Just as people who bear children when they are older parent differently than those who bore theirs earlier in life, my writing would have developed differently.

Birthing babies, never mind raising them, takes time and is hard on your body. A doctor will tell you it takes about 3 years for your body to recover after having a baby, he doesn't mean from the delivery. My children are 3 years apart, but I could swear my body didn't really recover until my youngest hit 6 or 7. I don't know if there is such a thing as recovery after birthing a story. Unlike being pregnant, writing breeds more writing. I heard an editor once refer to this  phenomenon as having a disease, once you caught the writing bug you couldn't stop. I view it as a blessing. When you experience starvation for awhile you don't take it for granted anymore.

No two writers write the same, every artist's work is distinctive to it's creator in some way and yet takes on a life of it's own; two pieces only being alike in the same way all children are children.  Each of my children is uniquely individual with their own characteristics, likes, dislikes and temperament. This can also be said for each of my stories. Most develop in the womb of my mind in a similar fashion, but they all differ in essence, design and their needs during their up bringing. Some are easy and others I have a more difficult time with, those ones fight me all the way with temper tantrums and arguments, but they're often worth it; they're the ones that teach me something and help take my writing to the next level.

I've always been delighted by a newborns perfection - one doesn't expect they won't be, but the tiny fingernails, exquisitely formed features, downy hair is all so absolutely without fault or blemish - it's amazing. And I know when a story is done because I get that same feeling. I can examine it, take it apart in every detail, read and reread it and remain almost in a state of disbelief that this piece of work originated in my brain and came from my hands - indeed, that I wrote it.

Some writers wait until their children are grown to take up the pen; for me, waiting almost killed me - I cannot do that again. Instead, I'm among those who manage to find a way to birth and raise stories along with children synchronously. There are many challenges to overcome and many hurdles to vault to accomplish goals and achieve some kind of balance between it all. I don't believe it's easy for any of us. I do it because both make up a large part of who I am and what's important to me; knowing in the end both my stories and my children will step into the world and if I've done a good job they will stand on their own.

Carrying, birthing and raising a story is as much as part of me as carrying my children was when I was expecting. There are sacrifices, decisions and priorities. It's physically and emotionally draining and one learns to live with being tired some days. Insomnia often strikes as the story begins mid-night calisthenics with ideas flowing forward as it stretches and kicks me into getting up and madly writing in my notebook. I know from experience if I don't do this and just enjoy the feeling of all these great thoughts I'll spent the next 3 weeks trying to recall them and they will never be as vivid or as perfect as this moment of clarity, no two moments, sentences or thoughts being alike. And so I write them down and later tweak them, rewriting them and adding to them until they are complete whole beings.

I loved being pregnant. I love my children; to create is to breath and to write is akin to being with child - It's simply part of who I am.

Note: The black and white photo's ones I took of my youngest son playing at the park (summer 2009). The colour photo of me at the bottom was taken by my friend Jerome. 

Finding Balance

I read a book once; well, part of a book. It was a book the counsellor I was going to see at the time lent me thinking it would help me sort out how I was feeling and what I could do about it. It didn't because she didn't understand what the issue in part because there were things I hadn't told her, which I was not ready to accept or deal with at the time. She therefore chalked my difficulties up to being creative and although it had nothing to do with what the issue was, I'm not sure she didn't touch on something.

The book, "Singing at the Top of Our Lungs" was about women, creativity and the modern world. I only read the beginning couple chapters, but it's one of those books I plan on buying at some point and actually reading through. The part I read delved into the "roles" and expectations of women in society with regards to their roles in relationships, love, sex, child rearing and society in general. And even though the roles in the book seemed a bit out of date, the psychologically unspoken expectations seemed accurate to me in many regards and I could see how they applied. The roles talked about all the unspoken expectations on women to take care of others, ensuring that everyone is content and has what they need. Therefore, putting the needs of others first, often at the expense of ignoring their own wishes and needs, for the greater good of children, husband and family. I'm not saying this is a bad thing, but throw in the need for creative expression or even the thought of taking care or ones own needs first and without balance it's like trying to doing everything or, as in the books title, "singing at the top of our lungs."

This balance is different for everyone. One of the women in the book achieved a balance and natural rhythm which worked for her by varying what she did during the year. I can't recall exactly how she set things up, but it was something along the lines of developing and framing her photography in the winters and walking, painting and taking pictures in the summers. This was her natural rhythm and allowed her the pace, creative outlet and rest which she needed.

I was intrigued and have since been searching for that rhythm myself. For me, writing and other creative expression has to be part of my life. It's an integral part of who I am. But, I also care about people and am, at heart, an advocate for societal change and equality where women, children and childcare are concerned. It is sometimes hard to find that balance of doing what I need, taking care of the needs of my family, meeting the obligations of work and working for social change. Thus, I'm always trying new approaches, hoping I'll hit on the right combination.

Having a rhythm is not the same as having a schedule and finding it is much like the process I'm going through with my revision of The Closet Guardian." Tightening word count and condensing it without losing the those pieces which are necessary for plot, character and story arch. Having studied how the pieces all work together, their importance to each other and the plot has allowed me to carefully change things without altering the framework and keep its integrity. Figuring out what is working in my life allows me to change things slowly and see if they fit and whether or not they work for me. For example, although my family has regular meals, I only eat when I'm hungry. I am learning to sleep when I'm tired and get up and write when I wake at 5 in the morning and begin composing a blog post or a story in my head. This is possible because I've arranged my work so that things are more flexible. I've also begun taking my dog places with me. That too has worked wonderfully as she and I get more walks together and we both enjoy and need the exercise.

I've also in the past few weeks realized that although my daily schedule might be more flexible, scheduling writing time is a must (even if it's not the same time every day or week) or I get sucked into doing other things, because there is always things to do for work, around the house, yard, or with my family. And the problem with that is if, like the past 8 weeks, I do not get large chunks of time to write, draw or be creative in some way, then I become overwhelmed and feel smothered and stressed. Not a good thing. This also why a writing space, like the café, works better than home as there are no menial distractions and the odd break when someone comes up to talk to me is refreshing and actually helpful.