The Loneliness of the 4:30AM Blogger

The alarm rings. It is next to Tom, and I mutter snooze, snooze. This happens 3 times before I realize it is Saturday. I can write! I have been writing about depression and prostates all week, and now I can write what I want.

Doing the right thing is hard. At the moment the right thing is to pay some serious bills. The right thing is to spend time with Gavin. This translates to postponing a freelance life that allows more than technical writing, and to limited creative time. I am green with envy when I hear of writers pursuing grants, pounding out book proposals. I know it’s been done by some working moms, but the timing is not right for me. So I cling to plans for a big sea change in a couple of years, when Gavin hits grade school and we’ve hacked away more of this mountain of debt.

Why is balance so elusive? I am finally taking care of myself—walking nearly every morning. But this means less time for the house, less time for Gavin, fewer calls to my family. It negates going in early to work to get ahead on my assignments. It means less writing, although I hope to turn the walks into idea factories (I can muse over essay ideas as I do my mile or two around town).

Not too long ago I Googled something like less than 8 hours of sleep. I was looking for some sort of sleep retraining plan, some evidence that only 5 or 6 hours of sleep might work for me! How much time I would gain! But even Google, with its vast reaches to China, Australia, and Zimbabwe, would not tell me what I wanted to hear. Sleep forfeit is not a long-term solution.

This week I finally admitted that something has got to give. No matter what the magazines tell us, you can not do it all. There are simply not enough hours in the day, not if you are a working mom. So your life is a series of choices. Which task is more important? What can wait? When do tasks stop so you can get some down time? The cascade of choices recalls my days as an emergency room nurse, when I was constantly triaging patients and tasks.

I remember one thing about emergency room life: you had to know what couldn’t wait. Not just life-threatening emergencies, but even little things that would create an avalanche of wasted time. If you let your IV bag run dry, even for a short period, then perhaps you’d have to start a new line. You’d have to get the kit to put a new IV in, a new bag, make room so that no one would bump you while you inserted the new needle. You might not get the vein the first time. Besides the obvious effects on the patient, I learned quickly that even small neglects add up to large swaths of lost opportunity.

I have to think more about how this translates to my life today. Maybe more importantly, I have to choose what must be set aside. I love the idea of cutting out some clutter—physical, mental, or otherwise—to make room for what really counts. But rule number one: I have to know what can’t wait. I’ve got the big things, child care and bills, covered. But for me personally, the can’t waits are my newfound fitness, and the absolute necessity to get my blog in on Saturdays. In a few years, it will be the need to pursue my writing dream full time, before it dies on the vine. I can feel the urgency rising.

Gavin’s still sleeping, so there’s time to check in on some fellow bloggers and my online writing group. Precious time well spent.

Jealous of Joyce

I looked forward to last Saturday for weeks. Joyce Carol Oates was giving a local lecture, a lecture that had already been rescheduled due to heavy snowfall. I haven’t read too much of her work; I don’t go for fiction much. But I have read enough to know she is a good writer.

Tom makes fun of me because I will watch BookTV, BookNews, or Book Notes on the more obscure cable channels, no matter what the subject. Nuclear physics? The Reagan years? Turkish politics? Bring it on. It is not the subjects that draw me: it is the authors. Each has a unique story of how they researched, how they found their audience, how they published. When I can steal some of these rather nerdy moments, I cuddle up with some popcorn and indulge.

Live writers are even more of a treat, and Joyce Carol Oates certainly filled the bill. Her physical appearance is striking: crimped hair, large glasses, and the lean body of a very dedicated runner. The story she read was striking, too – quite grotesque really: Madison Avenue sales girls turning on a rich, demanding customer in a very malevolent, violent scene. Although not my cup of tea, clearly this woman knows how to write! She is a Humanities professor at Princeton. Boy do I want that life someday: prolific writing, teaching other writers. What a dream it would be.

I didn’t raise my hand when she asked about writers in the audience (suddenly afraid I’d be called on to justify my existence). But I did take in every tidbit of the question and answer session.

Why am I jealous of Joyce? Mainly it is for her stockpile of ideas. My writing ideas come slowly, but it sounds like Joyce’s cup runneth over. She shared, with genuine sadness, that she was sure she would die before she got to write all of her ideas. No doubt, if her will allows it many years from now, she’ll be one of those authors with a series of posthumous publications.

In a few years, when I have tamed some of my debt, I want to take a year and try the real writing life. But I do fear running out of ideas. Where they come from and where they depart to is a vast mystery to me.

I was amused to think about her perhaps frustrated students: she doesn’t understand why they write 10 or 12 pages before getting to the meat of the story. To me, this is just the process. But Joyce forms a story nearly fully in her mind before doing any writing at all. She sees scenes in 3-D, like a hologram. She hears dialogue in her head. How can I get a mind like that?

I do know one thing: when I do get a breather (which is unfortunately quite rare) the ideas come in, first a trickle, then a modest stream (haven’t yet experienced a flood!). I am sorely tempted to try Miss Oates’ favorite pastime: running (read her essay: To Invigorate Literary Mind, Start Moving Literary Feet). I hate running, but if it will build me a stockpile of book proposals it would be worth it (plus, I might get skinny. What a pleasant side effect!).

Then there is the opposite Buddhist advice I have been reading: just sit. Sit and be open. Sit and let the ideas come. I could get into that. For a while I was doing a brief meditation before touching the keyboard, and it did seem to create a positive vibe.

I don’t think it is the physical activity (or the lack of it). It is an openness of mind, of spirit which I hope to acquire one day. It seems I can sit or run, and either way perhaps some more ideas will come. I just have to let them. It seems even a little jealousy can be a good thing.

Cemetery Walk

I have taken care of myself these past few weeks. It started as a lark - I joined the Biggest Loser competition at work, not feeling especially motivated. The winner after 10 weeks of dieting and exercise gets the sum of all our sign up fees. I don't expect to win - some of the young, single people are going to the gym every night. But the team effort got me thinking, and the thinking got me watching my portions and walking.

For the longest time, as I gained weight and stopped walking regularly, I simply threw up my hands. Oh well, I am a busy mother. Everyone gets fatter when they get older. If I only had more time. It feels good to hold myself accountable, and to rise to the occasion.

Still, ordering my life feels like a game of musical chairs. I walkedked every morning this week, and again on my lunch hour yesterday. But I feel one chair short of a balanced life. If Iwalk, then I spend less time with Gavin. If I walk, then I lose some morning writing time. If I walk, the house doesn't get clean.

Sometimes when I walk I fret about being one chair short. Or I plan my day. Or I envy the large houses I am passing. I am trying not to walk with a Monkey Mind. This is a term from Tom's Buddhist books, which means letting your mind race about unimportant things. It is the opposite of being in the moment.

One of my walks took me to a cemetery. If you have to be dead and buried, Riverview Cemetery in Essex is the place to go. A long, low green hill descends to the Connecticut River. In the wintertime it has a special beauty from the muted green of the hill, the tan rushes at water's edge, and the white, brown, and gray tombstones dotting the landscape.

At first I felt funny, walking briskly among so many dead. But I got a sense of benevolence and encouragement from my quiet companions. It was like they were telling me, you are still alive and you are taking care of that life. You are walking through beauty. Take it in. I let go of my Monkey Mind, stopped calculating how much I stood to gain or lose, time, weight, wealth, or otherwise. I watched an eagle lift off from a tree and soar across the river. His brown-grey majesty made me catch my breath.

I turned around and headed back to my car, silently thanking the lives that spoke to me. How good it felt to be in the moment. I want more of that.

As I typed this last sentence, I skipped an o and typed, How god it felt. Well, this is God to me. Walking on a mild winter day, watching an eagle, singing while I drive to work. I sang a childhood hymn along River Road:

For the beauty of the earth
For the beauty of the skies
For the love which from our birth
Over and around us lies...

Spring is approaching fast. Dawn is breaking as I write, and a lone bird is singing persistently, maybe to wake the others up. This morning is reserved for business: getting an emissions inspection, opening a bank account, etc, etc. But maybe I can squeeze in a walk first.

PS to my writer friends: Going to see Joyce Carol Oates speak tonight. Details to follow!

Tubside Chat

I couldn’t do it today. I had set my alarm for 4:30 AM, my usual strategy for writing without interruption. But all my body knew was that I had been up at midnight, watching Tommy Lee Jones on a talk show. After pressing snooze for an hour, I finally tried to sneak away to my computer. But I heard Gavin’s familiar refrain: Where are you going?

Where are you going implies so much more than the obvious. It translates to Don’t leave me; I’m afraid; I need you. Sometimes Gavin reminds me of a mother-baby Koala toy I had in grade school. The baby attached itself to the mother’s back by means of a vice-like grip. Cute and cuddly, but tenacious.

So now I am on the floor of the bathroom, leaning back on the vanity. Gavin and I have dropped 4 colored tablets into the tub water, and now he is a graffiti artist with his new bathtub crayons. I am jotting my lines between frequent offers of “cold tea” from the faucet, and requests for art critiques.

The bond of parent and child is a funny thing. This morning I wanted nothing more than for Gavin to roll back over to sleep, with a parting See you later. On the other hand, I wrote a whole martyr-like essay on my struggle when Gavin stopped accepting my hugs unconditionally.

It boils down to this. I know that someday soon Gavin won’t need me, at least not in this koala baby sort of way. And I know that, as much as I grumble, I will miss that connection when it’s gone.

I have called this blog Digging with a Spoon because of countless scenarios like today’s tubside composition. I usually picture myself with a teaspoon, but today I relate more to my newest set of measuring spoons, labeled tad, smidgen, dash, and pinch.

So, digging with a smidgen spoon, today’s blog is short and unambitious. This morning I will sort party favors and pick up the cake for Gavin’s first real party, "real" in that kids from daycare are invited. I will try again for 4:30 tomorrow morning.