Not A Good Writer

Pen a few poems, stack up a few stories, acquire a few articles, and sooner or later you will run into the question-- am I a good writer?

Do not entertain it.

I have wanted to tell stories since I was old enough to scribble fantasy tales in my unicorn notebooks, and when I was nineteen I decided to become Serious about it. I wanted more than anything to write a Very Important Book that was worthy to join the ranks of that most elusive and admired of creature, the Published Author. But was I good enough? Were my words, my characters, my passions worthwhile or should I go back to the unicorns?

That question started small but quickly grew into a screech that drowned out any creativity I could muster. Every tiny flaw in my writing was held up to this imagined Good Writer Scale as time and time again I abandoned manuscripts in search of the One that would be Good. Meanwhile I was writing less and less; in fact, I no longer considered myself a writer. I'd have ideas, turn them around in my head for a few days, savoring the creative juice, then leave them to dessicate because I still couldn't answer that question. Would a Good Writer do this? What if I end up with an entire book that is horrid and unreadable and, worst of all, rejected?

One night my frustration drove me to ask my husband a direct question. Ladies-- do this only if you want a direct answer. I asked him if he thought I had what it took to be a writer (again, trying to answer the Good Writer question) and he said no. I gaped like a fish. Was my writing bad? No, he said, but I had done very little to demonstrate that I had the desire or the capability to complete and submit substantial manuscripts and that he wasn't even sure I liked writing. He said it made me miserable.

I fumed.
No desire? It's called mom of small children disease. At the end of the day I desire sleep.
Complete and submit? I have two short story publications, one contest honorable mention and a handful of copy ads....
Writing miserable? It's my passion, my calling, my dream, my....

Oh wait. He was right.
Writing did make me miserable because it had become a hamster wheel of guilt, shame and self-judgment. Trying to be a Good Writer sucked every bit of life, joy, or passion out of my writing. I had given up on each sentence before I was even finished typing it.
And sure, I'd published little bits here and there but it had been eight years since I finished anything substantial. Eight. Years. Even my most cherished excuse-- the sacrificial mommy-- seemed a bit thin when I thought of other writers who managed to finish entire series of novels while they had small children.

I realized I had two choices. Walk away from writing and spend my life doing something else I love or shut up and write with everything in me.

Constantly asking myself if I was a good writer was utterly the wrong question. If I ever were to decide the answer was yes, I would become self-satisfied and complacent. If I kept convincing myself that the answer was no or you'll never know, then I would continue to hate everything I created. I decided never to entertain that foolish query again. Instead, every time I sit down to write-- or even when I'm not writing-- my question will be what am I doing to become a better writer? I will never, ever arrive because there is no destination. Twenty years from now, I will still be honing my craft, sharpening my skills. When I wrote my first novels at ten years old, that was my thirst...to learn everything I could about writing and literature. I was insatiable.
I want that back, want it forever. Writers whose skill surpass my own are not causes for Good Writer Shame but food and drink to my craving for knowledge.

It is also the wrong question because I no longer care.
The second epiphany occurred while I was browsing a fan fiction site that hosted some of my old stories. (Yes, I wrote fan fiction. I admit it.) Even reading them years later I could tell that I loved writing those stories, that I wrote with confidence that I had something worth saying. I decided at that moment that I would write what I loved and how I loved and if every other person on the planet decided it was trash, so what. I have wasted eight years writing for other people and it's about time I started writing for myself.

I will be a writer because, quite simply, I will write. Without that act, I can have all the literary aspirations I want but they are pointless, like an obese woman telling themselves they can be skinny any time they want...they just haven't gotten around to it yet. I've lost almost a decade to that gibberish. I refuse to lose any more time.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go write.

Ember's First Poem

A sweet moon up in the sky
laid an egg on a star.
Someone jumped way up high
and touched the egg.
They ate it
and a baby was born
and her name was Ember.

-- Ember McSpadden

Best for Babes Ad Campaign

Breastfeeding is hot. It's domestic and more than a little dissident in our current culture, which is why I'm happy to participate in Best For Babes' ad campaign to spread the word. Their motto:

To help moms beat the "Bobby Traps"-- the cultural and institutional barriers that prevent moms from achieving their personal breastfeeding goals. To inspire, prepare, and empower moms. To give breastfeeding a makeover and give the moms the solutions they need to make it work.

Their credo:

ALL moms deserve to make an informed feeding decision, and to be cheered on, coached and celebrated without pressure, judgment or guilt, whether they breastfeed for 2 days, 2 months 2 years, or not at all. ALL breastfeeding moms deserve to succeed and have a positive breastfeeding experience without being “booby trapped”!

The ad campaign:





And my favorite....


Head on over to Best For Babes for more info, campaign graphics, and more.

Five Minute Bacon and Cheese Snackwich

Today is a Hungry Day. Little One is nursing in rapid machine-gun fire bursts due to her teething blues and I have no time to sit down and plan out a healthy, satisfying, tasty snack. I barely have time to slurp coffee with one hand while I put her in the sling with the other.

Thanks heavens for the microwave and for inspiration (desperation?) because I managed to hit upon a fast, blissful snack that can be healthy-- or not-- depending on what you do with it. I just used what I had on hand but if you substitute reduced fat or fat free cheese you can up the health-o-meter quite a bit.


5 Minute Bacon and Cheese Snackwich

Ingredients
1 Arnold's multigrain sandwich thin
2 slices turkey bacon
1-2 slices Provolone (or other sliced cheese)

Instructions
Microwave bacon to desired crispiness. Blot to remove excess grease.
Fold bacon to fit on sandwich thin, cover with sliced cheese.
Microwave an additional 20 seconds or until cheese is gooey.

Pick up. Blow on fingers. Eat. Enjoy.

Makeover!

Blog redecorating is just about as fun as house redecorating only much less expensive. I got tired of the drab colors so I've changed things around and even gotten fancy with the fonts. Thanks to dafont.com for the cool (and free!) typography!

Maybe now that things look better I'll get around to posting more....my craft blog has been keeping me busy. I hope all you Fearless Readers enjoy the new look as much as I do.

snow fall

take me like snow
falling
hold me on the edge of melting
on your tongue
then let me dissolve
into winter kiss
let us blanket the ground
and give no thought
to spring

We Carry Them

We are both wearing babies, me and this girl, barely eight.
I am folding laundry and she is walking for water, or for food,
or away from bullets, from fire, from rape. We are both barefoot,
but I am standing on carpet and she is crossing sand,
wading through deserts. We have both made our carrying cloths
but mine is soft and clean while hers is a tired shawl, barely a rag.

I want to take her into my house and hold the baby so she can rest.
I want to feed her macaroni and cheese, to give her my shoes and
my good jacket. I want to knit her a hat and make the baby a blanket.
I want to tell her that wherever she is going, she will find shelter
and that the baby will live.

It's easy to have these good intentions towards a photograph.
Nothing is required but sympathy, that delicate ache that rises and falls
like an ocean swell....and that can be just as fleeting. It would be
easy to turn away from the picture and forget both of them by the time
I finish putting away towels. Chalk it up to a moment of rich American guilt
and move on. After all, the things I want to do are silly and impossible.
She's half a world away, buried under war and hunger and plague like
a survivor of earthquake under a collapsed house. It seems foolish-- even arrogant-- to think that I can do one thing to help her or the thousands upon thousands like her. It's like trying to stop the tsunami of human pain with
a bucket.

But I know Someone who can help her, who knows her name and the name of
the baby on her back, Someone who fathers the fatherless. When I pray for her,
He listens. And I have to believe that my kindness matters, even if she can't receive it herself. All of the tiny threads of love-- carrying my child, cooking for my daughter, teaching little ones about God, giving what I have so that others may go serve-- form a web that can blanket the world. I cannot love her but I can love those within my reach, and they may love those in their reach, and link by link the chain stretches even to Africa. Blessed are the feet that may take her the gospel, blessed are the hands that may give her a cup of cold water cold water in His name. May my feet and hands be blessings to those in front of me.