Author: Bethany

25Nov

Au Revoir

Dear husband,
I’m enmeshed in the seventh traffic snarl of the morning, though this one seems to be more of a Gordian Knot. No one has moved for the duration of my Vampire Weekend album, and several motorists are now rummaging in their trunks for survival rations. The bus driver from two cars behind has been walking up and down the ranks encouraging us to give up hope. If we don’t make it to the airport next week to pick you up, you’ll at least know where we are (A1 off-ramp in front of the Birra Moretti outlet, second guardrail down).

This has been an interesting morning, and not just due to our satanically early wake up time. The girls have plotted together to insure that at least one of them needs the bathroom at all times except when we are actually in one. Magellan’s engine light is on, its oil light is too, and the Italian traffic we have come to know and love has already added two hours to our return trip. I’ve put together a charming visual presentation of the morning so far, compliments of my cell phone camera:

While sitting in traffic is not among my favorite activities on the planet, it’s honestly not getting to me too much today. My thoughts are back at the airport with you, and every kilometer I’ve driven has felt like stretching a heavy-duty rubber band. That’s how it should be, I think, but it doesn’t change that heading home without you is a confusingly conscious effort.

I imagine you’re somewhere over the Alps right now, and I wonder about the likelihood of scoring a turkey dinner on a European airline. We’ll do our Thanksgiving after you get back, even if it’s just sneaking some bites of stuffing while we hang Christmas ornaments, but I can’t quite forget that today is the holiday itself. It’s part of my heritage no matter what country I’m in, no matter whether or not we can spend it together. So happy Thanksgiving, dear. I’m thankful that I still miss you before we’re even done kissing goodbye. I’m thankful that our car is more of a captive audience than a casualty of the traffic today. I’m thankful that I’ll get to spend the evening with friends and you with family and that we have about a billion forms of technology to keep us connected while you’re away, and finally, I’m thankful that my heritage allows me to spend this afternoon napping… even if has to happen on the A1 off-ramp in front of the Birra Moretti outlet, second guardrail down.

Love,
Me

23Nov

NaNoWriMo – Day 23

Part of the thrill of writing for me is slipping between words and reality and weaving the two of them into a meaningful tapestry. I could not create without this life that holds my attention firmly in its gaze, and I recognize that things will inevitably come up to keep me from the page. But really. This month has not been playing fair.

So far, November has given to me:
One laptop battery with heart failure,
Two sick daughters,
Three school holidays,
Four vomit-splattered rooms,
Five significant letters to write,
Six apologies by our homeowner’s insurance provider,
Seven days I’m going to be doing the solo parenting gig,
and
Eight thousand individual loads of laundry draped on radiators, furniture, and spare limbs to dry.
(That last one might be a slight exaggeration.)

After bidding farewell to the hope of 50,000 words and its shiny sense of superhuman accomplishment, I adjusted my personal goal to 40,000. After all, that’s exactly half of the recommended first-novel word count, and I could feel pretty good about writing half a potential bestseller in a month. However, I’m currently in the 27-thousands and wondering if I’m even going to make it to 30 before December accidentally knocks my free time into its glass of eggnog.

We shall see if I have any superpowers in me yet. I would love nothing more than to blast this month back into its lair of iniquity and emerge the victorious author, but if not… well, there’s always the eggnog

17Nov

(Un)Excused Absence

Saturday is when I should have clued in.

November had stashed away one last jewel of an afternoon, and it glittered emerald and gold in an unexpected flood of sunlight. Some friends of ours were taking advantage of the gorgeous weather to harvest their olives—another regional tradition that I’ve wanted to participate in since we moved to Italy—and they invited us to join them. I couldn’t imagine a lovelier way to spend the afternoon… soaking up the beauty of our friends’ country home, teaching the girls how to climb trees, rolling smooth olives between my fingers, and connecting with nature and laughter again after a stressful week.

However, I could not go. Literally. I had been dragging myself out of bed before dawn for days and scraping out my brain until late at night for any bit of creative residue. My Saturday word quota was filled, but I was beyond exhausted. Over a late lunch, my mind ran frenzied laps around the manymany other things I needed to get done until it simply stopped. Total shutdown. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t respond to simple questions. I couldn’t hold my head up.

While the girls skipped out the door with their dad to enjoy the last perfect fall afternoon, I burrowed under piles of covers where I spent the next few hours shivering uncontrollably and dozing off only to snap back in a panic over everything I needed to do. That’s when I should have clued in that NaNoWriMo was costing us too dearly.

It didn’t sink in though until yesterday when I read this:

“Sometimes I think I can do this and do that and then do this after I do that. But the truth is, motherhood permeates everything. It trumps all. It’s the calling that interrupts this and cancels that and makes this look like it never mattered anyway.”

Her words thudded into my chest and jolted my eyes back into focus. I hadn’t actually played with my girls since, oh… Day 3. The priority of writing a book in thirty days had edged them out, labeled them as threats to my agenda, marginalized their need for a happy, attentive mother. I had told myself we could survive anything for a month, but that simply wasn’t true. The crusty dishes could survive. The unsorted laundry could survive. But we, with our beating hearts and fragile skins, were not surviving my absence from life, no matter how excused.

I parked myself on the girls’ rug yesterday evening to play Legos with them and practically had to glue myself in place. I wanted to be there, to be a mother again, but my mind was lost in a maze of Christmas lists, insurance policies, and an ever-looming storyline while a disembodied voice over the loudspeakers reminded me that I was still 3,000 words behind. I told it to shut up. It boomed an accusation of laziness. I asked it what could be more important than my family. It answered, “NOT FAILING.”

Wrong answer.

I wish it hadn’t taken me so long to understand that that voice over the loudspeakers, the voice of achievement no matter the cost, didn’t have any more control over me than I gave it… but I would rather clue in late than not at all. Before going to bed, I reset the alarm to give myself an extra hour of dearly-needed sleep, and I woke up smiling for the first morning this month. Throughout today, I’ve worked on extra-bookular activities and spent time with my family without guilt. I worked on the novel too, but I let myself feel proud for adding 500 words rather than despondent over not completing 2,000.

I’m not quitting NaNoWriMo, and I’m certainly not giving up on my strapping kindergartener of a book. However, one month is too long to devote myself to literary abandon. I have a worthier calling that interrupts plots and cancels characters and makes an impressive 50,000-word goal look like it never mattered anyway. My new goal for November is to make sure my girls know that I know this… and if I manage to write a large chunk of book in the process, well, that will just be olive oil on my bruschetta.

16Nov

NaNoWriMo – Day 16

I’ve heard of writers who immerse themselves in the act of creating and find themselves springing to life. The mindfulness, the focus, and the giddy joy of prioritizing art infuse their lives with a kind of magic, and they luxuriate in it. I’m finding out that I am not one of those writers.

My usual motivation for writing—the sheer love of it—faded within the first few days of NaNoWriMo, and I’ve been slogging through it since with varying degrees of satisfaction and frustration. I’m still forging ahead because this book dearly wants to be written; it’s been telling me so for years. I’m using my faint competitive streak to my advantage here, using a word count goal to keep me writing when I would otherwise quit after 300 words a day, and the thrill when (if?) I finish is going to be incredible. However, the process is just … not fun.

I’m not sharing this to be a downer or to complain about this opportunity in which I am voluntarily (and gratefully) participating. Rather, I just wanted to preserve an honest glimpse of my month as a novelist while I’m here in the muck of it. And now that I’ve done so… ::cue cracking whip:: …back to work!

11Nov

NaNoWriMo – Day 11

I don’t have any good blog entries in me right now, but I wanted to say hi, to share a quick snapshot of my month as a manic writer.

Every day this week, I’ve run face-first into my perceived failure and thought I cannot do this and choked on the frustration of being such a slow writer in a daily race against my expectations.

Every day this week, I’ve done it anyway. I’m not behind (yet). However, the load of other responsibilities stacked unevenly on my head is growing heavier, and the weekend looms like a low doorway just ahead.

My brain feels fragmented, picked over, deflated drop by drop like the foam balancing on my vanilla bean cappuccino.

I love writing, but I can’t explain why—even to myself—when I’m in the thick of it, unable to see the forest for the words.

The process feels a little like this: standing in a room of sunbeams grasping for them one at a time, never sure if I’ve caught the right one or snagged a different one by mistake or simply grabbed a handful of air.

Air and light and particles of gleaming dust and failure and triumph and coffee… and now, sleep.

8Nov

NaNoWriMo – Day 8

Today, writing a book felt exhilarating, overwhelming, possible, and im. Watching the word count inch upward felt empowering, frustrating, satisfying, and un. Reviewing thirty pages of completed text felt gratifying, depressing, heartening, and dis. And posting about my progress now feels rewarding, presumptuous, so very normal, and so very ab.

6Nov

NaNoWriMo – Day 6

Good grief, writing a book is hard. I’m still on track, but I’m not going to tell you how many hours I’ve put into these first 10,000 words. Really, it’s embarrassing. I’m less than a week in, and life is already starting to feel frayed at the seams. The dishes are still getting done (thank you, Dan!), but this project has a gravitational pull big enough to leave formerly important areas of everyday life dusty and desolate. I’m not used to one thing taking so much priority. Plus, my brain is getting sore.

However, I’ve learned a few valuable things so far from this process:

  • Just because life feels over doesn’t make it so.
  • Pre-dawn morning is my best writing time. (Curses.)
  • One should never eat olives while researching insects.

You’re welcome for that last one. Now I’m off to take a hard-earned coma…

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