The Decline of Nap Time

She's two-years-old. Two. But she knows how to mess with my head.

Forty-five minutes into her nap, the phone rings. Please, please, please don't wake up (me to the two-year-old).  I just got into a groove. Don't let the bedroom door open, don't let me feel the devastating disappointment of creative juices reverse flowing. I need these two hours of her naptime to myself - there are only about 50,000 other writers out there whose children are content to sleep, whose children are better behaved than mine, and who will get MY shot if I can't finish the what it was I was having so much fun doing. Except writing isn't so much fun when I think about it like that. It seems a little bit like the floor of the NYSE when I think about it like that. Or perhaps like sub-tropical waters with bull sharks and barracuda...not at all like the Zen Garden of Imagination and Endless Possibilities that is, after all, a frame of mind.

Damn. I did it again. I let the fear of nothingness lead me into a bad place that is so not conducive to creativity. But here I am writing about it, creating something out of the chaos, and if this is all I get, this is all I get. I'm writing my way out of despair and into a sympathetic connection with others that may benefit me one day, but that isn't why I do it. 

I'm writing because the strangest thing happened to me in the last few years - my spontaneous, random self developed a daily ritual of committing myself to words. Even if I don't write 5 pages a day, even if I don't read a novel each week, I make an attempt and do something to reach my literary goal everyday. That is the constance born from the chaos of being a Writer Mom/Mom Writer. We've claimed something for ourselves and hopefully we will not be denied (very often). It may take some time, but detours like the decline of naptime are inevitable distractions that strengthen resolve or give dreams excuses to fizzle.

No fizzling here.  I will not allow it. Not because of sophomoric, teeth-gritting competitiveness. Huh-uh. Because I believe, and I know, writing is what I am supposed to be doing. Every time I find a way to do it within the state of Mommy flux and around everyone's everything, I'm developing me - the Writer, me - the Mom, me - the Writer Mom.

Please, please, please, don't give up (me to myself). You just got started.  Don't let the revolving door of "it" and "next" force you into frenzy-induced submissions of mediocrity. You're better than that. 

The Zen Garden sure sounds like a nice place to be, but I've got to get there using my voice. I have found that my voice echoes back to me beautifully in a place called the forest, but I miss it, all those damn trees. All those damn detours.

If a Mom Writer screams in that forest and no one is around, is she still screaming? If it helps her find (as many times as is necessary) her voice - does it matter?

Time to go get the kids from school...today, I'll be taking the long road (through my imaginary forest).

~Samantha Gianulis

Comments

[Paula]

Is this Sam?

Oh, I remember the day - god forbid if the phone rang during baby's nap time! I looked so forward to that two hour nap everyday...

Write on mamacita!
Paula :)