Making time for the writer in you to write

This is an interesting video that gives tips on how writers can fit writing into their over filled and over scheduled jammed packed lives.  

Which author, which page

            This post is different from my others because it is for a class assignment.  So, it’s a little more fact reporting.  I looked at two non-fiction authors and one fiction author for this assignment.  Over all out of the three Frances E. Kendall, Jessica Valenti, and Jackie Collins, Jackie Collins had the best site.   I must say that I didn’t understand the lack of flare on the non-fiction pages.  Non-fiction can be just as exciting, and engaging as fiction.  Even though I don’t read fiction much I read Jackie Collins from third grade until I was twenty. In sixth grade I was thrilled when I got to still in the hallway and read one of her books instead of watching E.T. in class.  (I to explained to my English teacher that I was forced to set through it once when it first came out and I refused to do it again.)   Anyway, Jackie Collins’ page was engaging, interesting, and fun.  One of the appealing things about her page is that she talks to her readers and fans and not at them.  She invites people to post of her comments and comments on those of her followers.  There is a link to her website as well as a sections for up coming events.  Her page is blocked off into months with a timeline included.  There are plenty of pictures from her personal picture, fan pictures, book cover photos, etc.  Her page keeps you up to date on current projects and where her books on in the development process.  There are also challenges and trivia questions some even have prizes attached to them.   She also checks into her page on a regular basis. Her definitely gives inspiration to myself and other writers as well   

A Writer’s Bucket List

 I think every writer should have a bucket list.  I call it a bucket list instead of a goal list because for some reason goal list tend to get forgotten and get filed away in the all start that tomorrow.  But a bucket list has a since of urgency to it and we tend to put more importance on the list when our mortality is attached to it.   A writer’s bucket list does two things in my opinion it keeps us focused on what we want to write as well as reminds us why we write.   So practicing what I preach here goes my list:  

                          Finish and publish my novella series (These three works are my pride and joy)

                          Write video game dialogue (I am a huge gamer)

                          Co-Author a novel (I think it would not only be an adventure)

                          Write and have animated my own R- rated cartoon series. 

                          Write children’s book that entertain, teach, and don’t always have the happily-ever after

                          Write fictional works that challenge the conventional ideals of right and wrong.  Good and bad.

                             Get paid ( yes I said it and you shouldn't be afraid to put it on the list)

                           Have fun  ( I never want my writing to become a chore.)

My Boobs My Choice

I know this is suppose to be a writing blog where I talk about writing but I just had to say something on the issue Mayor Bloomberg and his campaign to lock up baby formula in NYC hospitals and push breast feeding.  Under the new policy every time a woman ask for formula for her baby a nurse will have to sign out a bottle and explain to the mother why she should be breastfeeding instead.  So in short under Mayor Bloomberg new policy it’s easier to get a prescription for oxytocin than a bottle of formula in a hospital for your baby.  Add that to his attack on my 20 oz. dark roast coffee with two splenda and NYC just made the list of places I’ll visit but won’t live.  Now as a woman and as a mother I’m not only offended but also pissed off by this.  No matter where you stand on the issue every woman has the right to chose whether to breast or bottle feed and she doesn’t have to justify her reasons to anyone.  She should not be subjected to a lecture every time she asks for food to feed her child.  Like I said I am a mother of five and I would like to dispel a few myths about formula feed babies.  First they are just as smart as breastfed babies.  My kids are highly intelligent. They love to learn and read, and they are all creative and athletic.  I haven’t had one case of ear infection, or infant illnesses that bottle fed babies are supposedly at a higher risk of getting.  My children are not obese.  My bottles fed babies are happy, and healthy kids.  I have a deep connection to all of my children and they have a deep connection to me.  And even though I don’t have to explain why I chose to bottle-feed I would like to explain my reason for bottle-feeding.  My oldest who is now a 14 years old, 6’1’, size 15 shoe, 230lb offensive and defensive lineman for his high school drank 8 oz. bottles every two hours from the moment he was born.  Formula over breastfeeding made sense especially after the first couple of times I had to pry his mouth open to get the nipple out because he refused to let go.  My point is breastfeeding or bottle-feeding it’s a choice and the mother who breastfeed isn’t better than the mother who doesn’t. And shame on any woman who thinks she is she’s better and think she has the right to judge the mother who bottle feeds.  Instead of breastfeeding moms applauding him take a moment and look at the bigger picture Bloomberg  stepped on women’s rights and used the support of women to do it.

The Horrific Beauty of Childbirth

This is a piece that I wrote for a creative writing class I took last year I have become pretty attached to it and would love to expand upon it by creating a collection of shorts that are funny and entertaining and written by men and women and how they survived the pregnancy and childbirth process.  And trust me the whole process is about survival.  The one thing that I have pregnancy and motherhood has taught me is that everything is funny and thank God I’m a writer because I have the ability to make it even funnier.  

The Horrific Beauty of Childbirth

There wasn’t a book I could have read or a video I could have watched that would have prepared me for the horrific beauty of childbirth.  After nine months of carrying around a well known stranger wherever I went; I spent thirty-six hours on a physical and emotional rollercoaster that resulted in the birth if my oldest child.  And I must say that after birthing four of my five children I am not only a veteran of the process but absolutely convinced; women got shafted in the whole bringing forth scenario.  

My journey into motherhood started at a craft store where I was assaulted by a sudden sharp pain that almost dropped me to one knee.  My first husband, Orin, grabbed me, stood me up and said.  “Oh no, you can’t do this now.  I have a huge presentation on Monday.  So this weekend is not good.  I can do next weekend, but not this weekend.  Besides it’s properly just a hunger pain.”  And considering I had already been to the hospital twice before for false labor I figured he was properly right.  So, we headed to our favorite Chinese restaurant instead of the hospital.

Everything was going great until the end of dinner; when I learned the hard way the difference between a stomach pain and a labor pain.  As we waited for the waitress to return with the credit card receipt Orin inquired as to why I wasn’t eating my fortune cookie. In a voice loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear I explained to him I didn’t give a damn about my fortune cookie I just wanted to go home. After apologizing to the people who were staring at us I loosen the white knuckled Kung foo grip I had on the table.  Just as I was pulling myself together the owner’s mother came running from the back with a glass of water insisting that I drink it. When I refused the water, her insistence became greater and we proceeded to engage in a twisted version of no take backs sliding the glass back and forth on the table.

Even though home was where I insisted Orin take me; being at our apartment didn’t help any.   The pains were getting increasingly stronger, but far from the required five minutes apart.  Once the contractions reached twenty minutes apart I couldn’t take it any more.  I demanded that Orin call the hospital and let them know we were on the way.  When he refused because it was too soon.  I explained to Orin is a calm voice loud enough for our neighbors to hear.  “If you don’t call, I’ll kill you!” Thankfully, Orin decided it was better to call than to have our son grow up fatherless.  I could say my threatening to take Orin’s life was an isolated incident but that would be a lie.  It would happen several more times during our thirty-six hour adventure into parenthood.

After a torturous twenty-minute car ride where I felt every bump, crack, and cricket in the street; I was rushed to the maternity ward floor. My stomach was as hard as a basketball and my back was strained beyond belief.  I remember lying in the hospital bed trying to find some level of comfort when all of the sudden I felt wet, very wet.   I laughed out of shock and nervousness because I hadn’t wet the bed since I was a little kid.  Orin found the incident extremely entertaining; so much so that when he called for the nurse he didn’t say I think my wife’s water broke. He said through the laughter “My wife just peed the bed.”   The nurse checked the pad I was lying on and explained the wetness was amniotic fluid.   Orin was disappointed it was amniotic fluid because he thought urine would have been funnier.  “Are you sure, she didn’t pee her pants?  Because I think she peed the bed.”  The nurse had to reassure him several times it was not urine.  The mixture of laughter and disappointment on his face was quite amusing.  What most women would have found horrifying I found unbelievably comical.  

And then as if on cue if happened, nothing, absolutely nothing no contractions no pain, no pressure.  This “Nothing” went on for over twelve hours.  I paced up and down the halls of the maternity ward so many times, I was able to identify all of the age spots, nicks and scratches in the walls and floor.   As if being confined to the maternity floor wasn’t bad enough my doctor placed me on a liquid only diet because once your water breaks there are no solid foods until you deliver.  So, I was stuck alternating between chicken broth and beef broth for meals. Yum.

  At eight o’clock Sunday night when my nothing still hadn’t turned into something a decision was made for me to be given a morphine pill.  I was told two things would happen; either I would wake up in labor or I would get a good night sleep and be induced in the morning.  Orin decided he would stay with me until I fell asleep.  I tried as hard as I could to stay awake because this was my first pregnancy, I was only twenty-one and I didn’t want to be let alone.   But the morphine clutched me so strongly I couldn’t ask him to stay when I saw him walk out the door.  My mouth was too heavy to form the word “stay” thankfully before I could feel lonely or scared I fell into a deep sleep. 

I am the type of person who doesn’t like to ask for help so when I woke up and needed to use the bathroom I decided against asking the nurse.  With nothing but an IV pole for support I stumbled and fumbled my way to the lavatory.   As I stood in the bathroom I found myself faced with a perplexing problem.  I looked down and saw three toilets; courtesy of my morphine-induced state.  Subsequently I did the only thing I could do. I paused, took a breath and remembered a line from the movie Rocky IV “hit the one in the middle”.  I’m happy to say that everything turned out great.   My real problem came when I found myself leaning on my IV pole in the middle of the room unable to take another step and desperate to get back in bed.  Somehow and I can’t remember how I made my way back to bed.

 Unable to fall back asleep due to my mouth and throat feeling like sandpaper I had no other choice but the break down and hit the call button.   While firmly locked in the thresholds of cottonmouth I managed to fumble out a few coherent sentences about thirst. I was pleasantly surprised when the nurse entered my room with a Sprite.   I took several sips; much faster than I should have but the cool bubbles felt so good dancing in my mouth and running down my throat.  I just couldn’t help myself.   It only took a few seconds for me to realize that I had made a terrible decision.   And before I could correct it; I projectile vomited my drink across the room.  I called the nurse back in and explained I had gotten sick.  She looked puzzled and asked where, that’s when I pointed across the room.

From that moment on things kicked into high gear. I was in active labor. My room flooded with nurses and doors to a room I had never paid attention to until now were flung open and things started coming out. Most I have never seen before.  I panicked and started to cry.  One of the nurses came over to inquire about why I was crying.  I blurted out “I’m not into that freaky stuff I just came here to have a baby.”  Her attempt to hold back her laughter was sweet. She explained to me it wasn’t as bad as it looked and most of the things wouldn’t be used. 

It shocked me how fast my contractions started coming now.  They were faster and harder than the ones before the twenty-four hours of “Nothing”.    My anxiety and fear grew momentously during this time. And then it hit a mind numbing contraction that was so strong I though I would split in half.  Unable to bear it I grabbed the closest nurse to me and screamed in her face.  “This is the most unnatural thing I have ever done!  The female body was not meant for this and women who do this more than once are masochistic and should be taken into a field and beaten! Get my husband now!”  They tried to comfort me but nothing was working.  Just when I though it couldn’t get any worse it did. The nurses called off my epidural because they felt I was too far along.  When Orin called to check on me I screamed into the phone “I’m dying, I’m dying and no one will help me!”  This sent him into a total panic.  The nurse took the phone and calmly explained I wasn’t dying I only felt like I was dying.  Orin arrived not long after the phone incident and that’s when I proceeded to call him every name in the book.  I think I even invented new ones. 

Then as my luck would have it things went from painful to just painfully wrong.   There was a woman who had delivered the night before and believed childbirth was so natural and beautiful she had no problem with her, what looked to be eight-year-old son, running in and out of my room and the rooms of other women in labor.  On the third time he ran in my room I asked the little boy if he wanted to play with the nice lady with the IV pole.  I was in a lot of pain and completely fed up; so I decided the next time he ran in my room I would hit him with the pole.  What the little boy and his mother failed to understand was I had a plethora of people in my crotch I didn’t need nor want a little kid there as well.  Thankfully Orin, who had nodded off, woke up and rushed him out the room before I could make nice.

I could hear the boy’s mother saying she was going to give me a piece of her mind.  In response I proceeded to yell an overabundance of insults down the hall; I used extremely colorfully and descriptive words to describe her feminine parts. I would have said them to her face but Orin wouldn’t let me out of the room.  Fortunately for all of us the nurses intervened and convinced the woman to keep her son with her.  After that fiasco, I tried as hard as I could to be nice to Orin but I couldn’t with every contraction I hated him more and more.  I found myself looking around the room for something to bludgeon him to death with.  Unable to follow through with the death plot I settled for telling everyone who came in the room his mother didn’t know who his father was and she was engaged in a three way with the mailman and the UPS guy.  Pain can make you say and do crazy things. 

It only took three more hours of pain and insanity for the doctor to see things my way.  He ordered my epidural even though I was well over seven centimeters. His decision came after a series of peculiar events that were beyond my control and left him with only two options epidural or restraints both of which were discussed outside my room with my husband.  The events are as follows I tried to leave with my car keys and wearing only a hospital gown, twice.  I almost hit the doctor’s assistant who instead on opening the curtains in my room and turning down the heat.  I tried to leave my room again this time to fight the woman with the boy because she didn’t approve of me cussing.   My pain came so close to driving me insane.

My motherhood journey has made me a firm believer in epidurals.  It’s not just a wonderfully beautiful drug; but also a gift from God to childbirth.   One needle strategically placed in my back not only made the rest of my labor doable but also saved my marriage.  After what seemed like an eternity of pushing and shoving an amazing screaming goopy new life was placed on my chest.  All of the hate that I felt towards Orin vanished and I learned what it meant to love someone more than you love yourself.   Savon’s beautifully horrific birth made the events preceding his arrival trivial in comparison to him.

       

A writer? So what do you really want to do?

Why do people always ask  this question when a person says they want to be a writer, or an artist of any form.  You never hear people ask med students or law students so what do you really want to be?  Why is it so hard for some people to believe that there are people out there who not only write but actually want to carve out a living doing it.  Last year my pessimistic, narcissistic mother came to visit and half way through my seven days in hell she so graciously asked if I was still doing “that little writing thing”  (I can always count on my mother and grandmother for a confidence boost).  When I gritted through my teeth yes, trying to remain somewhat civil and not lose what little bit of religion and faith in the universe I have left.  She then proceeded to in her own mommy dearest way point out that no one who isn’t famous is making a living as a writer.  I was offended by her mommy dearest comment on several levels; first there are plenty of “non-famous” people who make a living as writers.  Second, just because someone is famous it doesn’t make them a writer reality stars have driven that point home with a vengeance.  After thirty-six years of being her daughter I knew we were not going to be able to have a civil conversation or debate about her baseless comment and I did the only thing that would make sense so I cut the television off in the room.  When she asked why I said in my sarcastic way.   “It seems pointless to keep it on since only famous people make a living being writers.”  She didn’t get it but in truth I didn’t expect her to understand.  And in some respects I don’t understand why writers are held to a higher level than other professions.  I don’t understand why it’s okay to be a successful unknown doctor but not a successful unknown writer.     

Twelve days in my World

On the first day in my world the universe gave to me

One Yukon XL with 100,000 miles

On the second day in my world the universe gave to me two non-working hearing aids for my husband and a Yukon XL with 100,000 miles

On the third day in my world the universe gave me to three crazy 100lb dogs, two non- working hearing aids for my husband and a Yukon XL with 100,000 miles.

On the fourth day in my world the universe gave to me four dying hedges due to the drought, three crazy 100lb dogs, two non-working hearing aids for my husband, and a Yukon XL with 100,000.

On the fifth day in my world the universe gave to me five smart active kids who are bleeding me dry with extracurricular activities and sports fees, four dying hedges due to drought, three crazy 100lb dogs, two non-working hearing aids for my husband and a Yukon Xl with 100,000 miles.

On the sixth day in my world the universe gave to me six baby t’s that I’ll never fit in again, five smart active kids who are bleeding me dry with extracurricular activities and sports fees, four dying hedges due to drought, three crazy 100lb dogs, two non-working hearing aids for my husband and a Yukon Xl with 100,000 miles.

On the seventh day of my world the universe gave to me seven mistakenly downloaded apps, six baby t’s that I’ll never fit in again, five smart active kids who are bleeding me dry with extracurricular activities and sports fees, four dying hedges due to drought, three crazy 100lb dogs, two non-working hearing aids for my husband and a Yukon Xl with 100,000 miles

On the eight day in my world the universe gave to me eight mystery foods wrapped in foil in my frig, seven mistakenly downloaded apps, six baby t’s that I’ll never fit in again, five smart active kids who are bleeding me dry with extracurricular activities and sports fees, four dying hedges due to drought, three crazy 100lb dogs, two non-working hearing aids for my husband and a Yukon Xl with 100,000 miles.

On the ninth day in my world the universe gave to me nine different telemarkers on my cell phone, eight mystery foods wrapped in foil in my frig, seven mistakenly downloaded apps, six baby t’s that I’ll never fit in again, five smart active kids who are bleeding me dry with extracurricular activities and sports fees, four dying hedges due to drought, three crazy 100lb dogs, two non-working hearing aids for my husband and a Yukon Xl with 100,000 miles.

On the tenth day in my world the universe gave to me ten pairs of white socks washed with a red shirt, nine different telemarkers on my cell phone, eight mystery foods wrapped in foil in my frig, seven mistakenly downloaded apps, six baby t’s that I’ll never fit in again, five smart active kids who are bleeding me dry with extracurricular activities and sports fees, four dying hedges due to drought, three crazy 100lb dogs, two non-working hearing aids for my husband and a Yukon Xl with 100,000 miles.

On the eleventh day of my world the universe gave to me eleven boxes of why is my husband keeping this, ten pairs of white socks washed with a red shirt, nine different telemarkers on my cell phone, eight mystery foods wrapped in foil in my frig, seven mistakenly downloaded apps, six baby t’s that I’ll never fit in again, five smart active kids who are bleeding me dry with extracurricular activities and sports fees, four dying hedges due to drought, three crazy 100lb dogs, two non-working hearing aids for my husband and a Yukon Xl with 100,000 miles.

On the twelfth day of my world the universe gave to me a twelve-ounce vodka cranberry to wash down the eleven boxes of why is my husband keeping this, ten pairs of white socks washed with a red shirt, nine different telemarkers on my cell phone, eight mystery foods wrapped in foil in my frig, seven mistakenly downloaded apps, six baby t’s that I’ll never fit in again, five smart active kids who are bleeding me dry with extracurricular activities and sports fees, four dying hedges due to drought, three crazy 100lb dogs, two non-working hearing aids for my husband and a Yukon Xl with 100,000 miles.