Writer’s Wounds

The Writer’s Id, Ego, and Super Ego

Published on by Lisa

Over the weekend I ran into someone I knew from college.  Someone who went on to become a physician and married a lawyer and wore really nice clothes with a cool, slick satin tie.  As we exchanged expected pleasantries, and that pause came, signaling questions were coming I braced myself:

So, Lisa, what do you do?

In a world that is bombarded by measurements of worth by production, degrees, and credentials, I knew his reaction before I even said the words: I’m a writer.

Eyelids disappear, brows temporarily move in with his receding hairline before slowly coming down with the forced, “ooookay!” Like I had just said I was at a drug pusher. Like how a physician would communicate, “Right on! Good for you, kind of.”

And as we talked about his house and private practice, his wonderful kids, and wonderfully stable life as a physician I wondered if he would ask what I love most about MY life and it’d be something like, “I love my partner and our son.  I’m chasing my dreams and the wild part is that they are on this crazy ride WITH me.  We’re happy and still searching for who we want to be.”

But I didn’t want to risk his eye sockets cracking under the disbelief so I just smiled and nodded as he spoke.  He wasn’t being disingenuous.  He was kind but it was clear that a life of creativity is equivalent to a life of chaos and disruption. No plan, no stability, no firm anything.

*Shrug.*  I know.  I kind of like it that way.

And yet, as I explained to Nick, it’s still hard for me to accept the creative road.  When so much of my life I WAS cultivating myself for a life of a physician (I was going to deliver babies all over the world in underdeveloped regions and no access to healthcare) or a lawyer (human rights, of course).  But instead, for today, I chose to be a writer.  I chose this pathless life of daily grassroots existence and wiping mud off my face from rejection and critical feedback.  What I most struggle with, though, is my ego.  Like most writers do. Like any writer does.  I struggle with the need to know that what I have inside me is worth sharing.

It’s ironic to be a writer.  It’s what you want to do more than anything and yet the uprooting of that truth is so painful and so consuming, you’ll do anything to NOT do the work.  And after the years it took to come forward and present myself to the world, I find that I need affirmation.  The desire to write is NOT enough.  It’s ego.  The desire to have your work distributed, known, respected, studied, analyzed, read, considered.

The professional life still beckons me.  To this day, I can’t read about human rights law programs without feeling a dagger in the heart.  When I was pregnant, I asked my OB/GYN if any older women attended medical school.  She nodded excitedly, “It’s hard, but it’s possible!”  It occurs to me on a daily basis that when one chooses to write, it’s one decision that cancels out every other viable life that would carry a great potential for a life on a sure trajectory.  It would be the exam you knew you could pass.  The purchase you wouldn’t need a receipt for because you know you’d never need to return it.

Writing is not any of those things.

Writing, unfortunately, manifests itself in a process that most of us, by nature, typically avoid.  The emotional ground work to create something true and resonating with our fellow humans means we have to live a bi-existence.  On one hand, you have to live in the world: buy groceries, endure DMV waiting lines, trip on sidewalk cracks, and fidget with broken belts just like everyone else.  And yet we have to maintain enough distance and quiet to be able to create an alternate universe to the world in hopes to write a book, poem, essay, or article that will help others realize an inner truth they didn’t know about themselves.

There are days I wish I had gone to med school or taken the LSAT to see if Could/Should have gone to law school.  But I know if I did switch places and magically be in that life, I know deep inside there’d be – not a roar (because that’d actually be delightfully promising) – but the whimpering sound of a dying darling girl who dreamed in words and couldn’t wait to rewrite the ending of stories she didn’t like.

I chose writing because it was my only true love.  I chose writing because it was my only real choice.  And for some reason that made the decision both easy and painfully difficult.

Imbalance Should Never Be Normalized: On Mothers, Writing, and Choosing Your Partner Parent

Published on by Lisa

I’ve been thinking a lot about how much time I read and absorb the life advice from other writers.  It’s soft addiction.  Articles about the challenge of motherhood and writing smell like dessert, and I devour each one as if I’ll find myself in someone else’s once kept now open secrets.

Who you choose to build a family with and how they view your writing life is kind of a big deal.  So often it’s the children – how many to have, whether serious writers have children (whaaat) – who are blamed as the prime distractors to women writers.  Here’s the thing though: a billion things distract or consume a writer’s time.  But another adult in the household is capable of helping create and sustain a productive and balanced writing life.   Right now, in most heterosexual relationships with stereotypical gendered traits, the partners, spouses, or lovers of women writers can help (he drove the kids to soccer, he made dinner one night) but its still the woman who does the majority of the child lifting.  As long as that is the model, balance will not and cannot be struck.

If I could tell young writers anything it would be to cultivate as close to a sustainable writing life as early as possible so you can choose a partner well and the expectations are clear from the start.  She or he doesn’t have to completely understand the demands of writing, but gets the jist that for as long as you’re in a committed relationship with writing, the primary human relationship won’t look like other relationships that are used as a barometer for success, happiness, or even peaceful.

Nick sometimes struggles with my struggle to be fully and absolutely present to him on weekends, our sacred hours together.  My fingers begin itching for a pen or a keyboard, my mind starts forming rebuttals and imaginary characters (depending on what I’m working on), and my eyes widen or narrow in reaction to my thoughts, as if I’m having a conversation all by myself.  Which, actually, is the painful truth for partners of writers.

Who you choose to parent with, how you set up that situation is one of the most underrated areas in the debate of women writers and finding balance.  Nick gladly picks up most of the domestic duties when he is home because he knows that I need to focus on writing when I can.  He disappears with Isaiah for hours at a time so I have a quiet office in the house and only interrupts to see how I’m doing, to rub my back, look over my shoulder and make a short quip about turning out a bestseller so we can retire. (My usual reply is a laugh, “With the content I’m interested in?  Hardly going to make us rich.”)  But more than that and what usually carries me is that he gets it.  He sometimes doesn’t like it but he gets it.  He gets that writers often wonder away to love a character instead of a human being next to you.  He gets that I spend a majority of my time doing unpaid work and picks up the slack, watches our budget, and takes on more because of the understood covenant between mother writer and her work.  He gets it and the balance, the ever so fragile balance, is sustained when your partner understands the psychological, emotional, and financial sacrifices that need to be made in the name of creative work.

The community, village, partner, and family we create is just as critical to the food we put in our bodies, the amount of sleep we try to get, and the oxygen we take in for creative work.  Emotional support is amazing, but the practical resourceful help that partners give – without tricks or guilt trips – cannot be overstated in the mother writer role.

The balance of parenting, for those in partnered relationships and nuclear families, has to be shared. It must be shared.  I’m not convinced that balance can be struck without actualizing that in your family.  And I simply refuse to normalize a state of imbalance; it is not an option for me.  What turns that refusal into a lived reality is a partner who refuses gendered imbalance as well.

The Slippery Slope of Writers Using Social Media: What I Learned from Shutting Down and Going Offline

Published on by Lisa

Social media had sunk its teeth deep into my flesh.

I noticed that I was spending more time reading my colleague’s work, reading articles about writing, absorbing top ten lists of famous author practices, shaking my head over the latest news about Pope Francis, and laughing over clever memes and looking over quickly written haikus more than I was doing the process of writing; that space where your hands pause, your mind lowers into a deeper spot, and lips slightly part in anticipation of a clearer word to use.  That space was filled with links, GO HERE commands to read the latest brilliant quote from Junot Diaz, a MUST READ with my name tagged in it from an activist group, and then there was my offering community support to others: dropping off a few dollars via PayPal for activists and writers whose rent and grocery bank accounts were low, reading breakthrough essays from emerging writer friends in Salon, The Paris Review, or the The Rumpus, passing on information on crowdsourcing projects for independent films and memoirs about Caribbean girlhood, access to clean water, and protecting Indigenous rights.  There are petitions to Free Marissa, animated videos to learn about Syria or the government shutdown, and applications for writers’ studio time, grants, and artistic residencies.  All opportunities, all good, all of my life swirling into one screen on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, LinkedIn, Pinterest, GoodReads, and Google+.  I started noticing my attention span was getting shorter and shorter and perhaps social media was contributing to that frenzied jump from link to link.

So I booted myself off social media.  It was time.  My attention span was like a connect the dots map with no lines connecting for a big picture.  It became apparent one embarrassing moment the other day when I raced up the stairs to use my computer to get directions before my family went out and when I sat down in front of the screen, found an open tab, and quickly sunk underwater in an article about postpartum depression, then about the origin of the magazine it was published under, then about its founder, then about one of the zines she had once written, then about … then… click.  click. pause to read.  click.  click. Several minutes passed and then I heard a voice from downstairs, “Did you get the directions?” Nearly 20 minutes had passed.  I glanced down and saw my scribbling: Research PPD across racial and cultural lines.  Possible legal implications in cases involving custody disputes or child endangerment?   How has women’s mental health research changed in the past 30 years?  How much of that accessible to patients with prenatal care?  How effective are ob-gyn physicians in identifying severe PPD?

Even though no one could see my face when I realized how long I had taken to get directions, I blushed. Have I no sense of time, respect, discipline to seek out one thing and close myself to all the other distractions?

As I cooked dinner that night night, I thought more about my struggle to be a balanced, modern essayist, a mother, with my fervent love of all things new, wordy, and smart.   As my hands grazed the bottles of Hoisin, sweet chili sauce, and Sririachi, and I made a new concoction for a marinade, I smirked at the culinary comparison that came to me as I prepared the marinade.  Some writers absorb and process like tofu. Splat some cubed tofu into a bowl of sauce and it will rapidly inhibit the spices and flavors of its saucy environment.  Within minutes, the soybean curd will reveal a combination of tongue-pleasing goodness that any foodie would appreciate.

But I am not like tofu.

I’m like the thick piece of poultry that needs a few days to trust and then gradually swallow the Italian spice, or the adobo seasoning, or to deeply kiss the depth of the curry.  I need time.  I’ve always been a slow reader and writer.  Slow, as in, I frequently put a book down to think about what it conjures up.  That happens quite a bit.  Somehow, though, over the past few years, that patience has left me.

If you ask me if any of the things I’ve recently read online have really moved me, I have to be honest and say with the exception of one essay, I don’t remember the others.  Out of the hundreds of things I’ve read through social media, I only remember one.  It’s a reflective essay from David Sedaris about his sister who committed suicide.  And, as only David Sedaris could, the essay brought me to audible mmhmm and hearty laughter.  Yes, the essay was about his sister’s SUICIDE.  Who can do that?

That is the work of a writer.  To take the reader into an unexpected place.  I’ve been busy, but I don’t know how much work I’ve been doing that has contributed to my own craft.

But the discovery over the past several days has not been about the writing, reading, or even the processing.  It was the renewal of self-confidence that came with being socially quiet and emotionally attuned.  Social media for writers can be the port to community, resources, networks, and community that every artist needs for creative survival, but it also comes with an alluring temptation to spend one’s time in observation rather than creating.  There is a safety in observation.  An endless excuse for learning more.  But the deepest learning a writer can do is not through reading, it is through writing.

As an extroverted writer with an insatiable addiction to intellectual stimulation, the internet is an infinite playground.  Social media is unhinged door with no threat of closing.  Even though it is a digital New York City lifestyle with its endless temptation of distraction, an endless conversation with myself that often leads me to a blank screen and endless drafts, I miss it.

I want both worlds.  I want the buzz and the quiet.  I want community support and the isolation to work.

This afternoon, as I got off the phone with my publicist about my book, she reminded me to grow comfortable in getting “out there;” in establishing my voice and testing how it sounds in public spheres.  Pitching to more places.  Writing more articles on the subject matter.  Using my voice means strengthening it for the long term.  A part of that strength training is using social media effectively AND writing more for public consumption.

I felt fearful to return to social media.  What if I waste my literary life?  What if I can’t control my attention span?  The demand for writers to produce original work requires mental space.  That sacred real estate is precisely where social media coyly conspires to set up permanent residency.  The reality for published writers is that a platform must not only be created but also sustained.  Social media is the primary and most effective tool for doing just that.  Thus continues the quandary, the tightrope walk balancing platform maintenance (which quickly can slide into general entertainment and social meandering) and producing creative work.

Over the past several days, I picked up my SLR camera more often.  I texted love poems to my partner.  I snuggled with my son without wondering if I should take an Instagram pic of how cute he looked.  For the billionth time, I started another morning prayer routine hoping I can make it sustainable.  New meals were served on the dinner table.  My mom was surprised to hear from me a few more times than normal.  I was present to others more, but what surprised me most was how much more I was able to be present to myself.  I read books with pages, turned the pages with my fingers.  It felt authentic.  I felt authentic.

That cannot be downloaded.

When I licked my lips and logged into my old friends named Twitter and Facebook, I find, not surprisingly, that the pace felt dangerously hurried and wonderful.  I could feel the tide tugging at my legs as I waded in knee deep.  It’s strong, the pull shifting the sandy ground under my feet.

I am staring out into the abyss of the ocean, afraid again.  I see a buoy ahead.  I straighten my shoulders, take breath, and wonder if I can swim with one arm.

Writing Poem, Untitled

Published on by Lisa

Being a writer is like

guaranteeing the stone
will skip clear
across the lake
-impossible-

halving
an alligator thick
harvest squash
with nothing but
a plastic butter knife
-impossible-

Writing is looking up in the cafe
when the coffee goers are gone,
listening to the tired busboy
with no tips
rattle the dishes in the back
an empty shop –
and realizing
your idea with
shoulder dysplasia
finally
birthed itself
into words
just as everyone else
sinks into their chairs
at home.

While the shop is empty,
the windows are dim,
but I am just beginning.

This is writing.

40 Days of Writing, Day 11: On Breaking Vows

Published on by Lisa

I made a vow to write everyday for 40 days.  On day 10, I forgot.

I FORGOT.

Nothing fancy.  Nothing tragic.  I simply FORGOT.

Nick told me to let it go and keep writing, “the point,” he said, “is redemption.”

No.  The point is to write everyday and I FORGOT.

What happened that day, I questioned myself in my head.

I woke up, went to work.  Had a meeting.  Worked, took care of Isaiah, babysitter canceled.  Scrambled to find a sitter because we had tickets to the Xavier game downtown.  And NCAA tickets aren’t something you turn your back on.  Out of town NCAA game goers came over.  Drove downtown, witnessed one of the sorriest performances every by my beloved Musketeers, drove home.  Thanked my sister 9238 times for watching Isaiah and then comforted a teething baby from 12am – 2am.  Wished Nick a happy birthday and fell into an exhausted sleep.

One of the things about getting older, I’ve found, is going a little easier on yourself when you fail.  I had a dream to writer 40 for 40 and I didn’t even make it to 10.

But, I’m writing now.

I fell off and I’m getting right back up.

That’s what writers do.  And that’s certainly what mothers do.

So, I do, too.

Got Inspiration?

Published on by Lisa

Me:  I think one of the scariest things is to think of myself at 70, unsuccessful in trying to write and finding nothing good coming from me.  I’m just going to feel like shit.

Nick:  Well, try to think of yourself at 70 and not having tried at all and finding you still feel like shit.

The Artist’s Way

Published on by Lisa

Some weeks ago (my memory is really bad since pregnancy), my dear friend and much respected writer, BFP, wrote something along the lines of saying that she was less interested in “activism” and more interested in the lives and journeys of artists.

That struck me. For numerous reasons.

The first thing that struck me is thinking about my blogging life. When I first began blogging four years ago (yikes! has it been that long?), I remember wanting my “writing” to FIT into the feminist blogosphere. I read many blogs then, wanting to understand what was important to the “Feminist Community,” and, truthfully, always struggled in that genre.

I struggled because writing is, essentially, an extension of one’s self. What interests me is what I will write most intimately about, what I love is what will illuminate the page (or screen) with my words. Making my writing fit is like trimming my own self, trying to make ME fit.

What I was always interested in were topics like God. Addressing sexual and gender violence in our everyday relationships through deconstruction and critical questions of gender norming. Family. Humor. And love. Always love. These were my interests.

I didn’t know it then, but my writing came and continues to flow from a very deep, supremely sensitive place where I process my memory, my life experiences. Of course, current events and news are always interesting, but the writing I connect with is the writing that comes from LIFE, my life. And I’m always interested in how others live or lived their lives.

How did Gloria Anzaldua live with diabetes? How did my mother live through immigrating to this country on her own? How did my cousins live through the passing of both their parents? How did my 8th grade science teacher feel when she decided to get teeth braces at the age of 48? What is it like for young women of color writers in the US?

These were my questions, they weren’t “feminist,” I suppose, but they came from a very real place that questioned the systematic punishment and guardrails around women.

Feminism exists for all of us to live richer, deeper, more fulfilling lives. Feminism exists for us to question what we want to question and to live as we want to live. The lives of artists, the lives of those who create are lives that are often imbued with resistance; they live counter-culturally. Artists, the souls who create something out of nothing, those who build from ill-fitting pieces possess a strength that reveals itself in their life choices.

I no longer worry about whether I or my writing fits. Rather, I focus on whether or not I am truthful, committed to creation and relationship, and love. Always love.

The Pregnant Process of Writing

Published on by Lisa

I’m in the last few weeks of my pregnancy and I wish I could write like I used to. I’ve heard some women measure the differences pregnancy has made in their lives by their physical bodies, the hours of sleep they used to get, how their emotions change. One of the biggest changes for me has been my writing voice.

Perhaps it’s the draining of my memory or the lack of focus on one central issue that has prevented me from writing as I used to. Perhaps its the inward-ness I’ve experienced as a pregnant women. The lioness in me to outwardly roar into the ear of the world has been sleeping with her cub. Instead of love projected into activism, travel, writing, and conferences, my life is love put into daily self-care, methodical practices to prepare for a child, mental quiet to adjust to the radical life changes happening.

My writing is deepening and the evidence is not public. Writing has always been such a private locket for me; a small beautiful thing hanging close to my heart and writing, before it’s released to others, has always first transformed me before I let it out. This pregnancy, how I have come to grow with a life within me, has changed my perspective. All of the things I were before I still am, just in a profoundly different way. The awareness of another human could not be more pronounced than in the glowing and growing underbelly of a pregnant woman. There is not one step I take now without effort, not one night where I am restless and drained, not one breath I take that is not shared.

That awareness is a new writing tool, a new gift that I am still marveling in its sheath.

In the next few weeks, a new chapter of my life will begin and I am deliciously terrified of how that will unfold. I worry that I will not be able to write as much, or as well, ever again with new parenting responsibilities. I am afraid that my life will move in a direction that closes the spaces I once reserved for writing. To some extent, I’m sure that is true – a childless schedule typically lends itself to more freedom than a woman with a newborn – but if there’s one thing I have learned from the past eight and a half months is that there are some things in life, there are some things that simply call for trust.

And love always leads the way. Love led me this far to birth this child.

Love will lead me back to writing well.