I wrote this post three years ago. Now I live without my Mom’s voice and I am doing what I promised. I am working on a big project, writing a novel and my mind is playing on a big canvas.
My blog posts arrive quietly in my mind while I am cleaning, sorting or putzing around.
Thoughts develop, themes appear, and I want to talk about them. Sometimes I need to just sit quietly for a while and then my ideas arrive and start bubbling.
I thought I was going to write about love yesterday, but today I find myself writing about writing.
Writing is something that my Poor Mom misses. Her thoughts bubble about and are delicious, metaphoric and deeply insightful, but she can’t write them down anymore.
I call her My Poor Mom now that Parkinson’s has taken over her life and fogged her hard working mind with apparitions and paralysis. All her life she was a woman with ideas and creative outlets; now she struggles to have a conversation.
We talk about blogging and writing a lot and she remembers her days when she wrote for an internet writing group called NerdNosh. She wrote episodic memoirs of her life with the caveat that it would be good for her family to have those stories written down. This was a very happy time for her; she had her own writing room where she would work on her albums and write her Nerdnosh remembrances.
This was as close to being an artist as my Mom got, and believe me, she could have been an artist. During one of our recent poetic, speculative and superbly honest conversations I told my Mom that she could have been a novelist (or painter or filmmaker). Even now, her imagination and her ability to analyze her imagination are incredible. When she woke from her weeks of semi-consciousness after her heart operation she told us all about the novels she had been writing while she was resting.
Recently her mind has been creating stories to accompany the hallucinations that crowd into her life. She told me that it is tiring living in the middle of a film set as people are always moving things and putting labels on things. Even after I confirmed that this was just her own personal apparitions, she went on to tell me that the theme of the film was quite interesting, as if she was writing a film review. “It is all about the dark spaces of nothingness between the frames” she said. I said, “Mom, you are blowing my mind”, and she laughed.
And we went on to talk about why women find it so hard to take themselves seriously as writers or artists. She told me that her life as she was living it right now would be a good premise for a novel. “I’d make an interesting character”, she said. As a busy mom she told stories, painted, drew, and played the piano. She surrounded her children with creativity, worked as a journalist, an administrator and an agent. But she never created a story that was parallel and separate from her.
We wondered together what type of personality it took to sacrifice time and energy to a novel. We know that men and women do it all the time, even women with children, (which is truly remarkable) but we wondered what it is that drives them to produce purely fictional material.
What stops so many of us from grasping the full title, or aiming for the highest achievement? Can I create more than patches on a quilt of my life stories, or ‘mere light nothings’ as my Mom calls it? I feel that being a fiction writer may require a bigger ego than I have, or possibly, more mental discipline and stamina. But as I near the age of fifty I know that I not only have a perfectly good ego, but stamina and discipline.
I am fascinated by women’s writing and why they write and how they write. I am interested in the entire debate of a ‘woman’s voice’ and whether you can say there is one. An old text book on Feminist Literary Theory, my conversations with my lapsed writer mom, and my blog are all leading me irrevocably down a path.
In respect of my Mom, and with love to my Mom, I feel that I have to take the creative process one step further. Women are often content to create as we go; our story telling, our art work, our sewing and knitting adorn our lives and others, but are washed away in the current of life.
Maybe that is best. I don’t know. I don’t think that ‘fine art’ is better than craft; it is just defined and valued that way. But sometimes we hold back from creating something big because of a lack of confidence, and that is not a good reason.
In our latest conversation I told Mom I would attempt to take writing to the next level. My mom has always said you are not a writer unless you have a manuscript hiding at the bottom of your files. I have those, a pile of them, and they are very old and dusty or in ‘word’ files that can no longer be opened by any proper computer.
I told her I would try. It is a big commitment, promising a dying woman that you will write stories for her sake, but my only saving grace is that Mom may forget what I said.
So I have a project I am handing myself, I am going to take all my lost children, my unfinished stories, and work on them with the same upbeat, sensible wordsmith practicality I take to my journalism or public ‘journaling’ (blog). No self-loathing or recriminations, no high expectations or fear of failure, just a person who is happy to have her mind and fingers still working together.
And I better work quickly so my Mom has enough vigor to be able to criticize what I create; I don’t mind, I can take it.
9 thoughts on “Writing about Writing”
Sounds like you and your mom share a lot. Keep going and defo keep writing… for you and for her. 🙂
Thanks, I appreciate your thoughts and support. I am going to call my Mom right now, and if she is up to talking, it is going to be interesting!
I love reading your thoughts and impatiently wait for the next installment. Yes, do surface those old stories and do have confidence and do write, for all of us.
Wouldn’t it be interesting to capture the stories your Mom has to tell now, in her current state. What she is seeing, how she experiences, and how she analyzes it all, would be an amazing read. Then again, maybe that’s because I’m a long-time fan of your Mom’s writing.
I agree, the woman could have been any kind of artist and I see the gift of her facility with words came to you. She’s lucky to have a daughter who can understand the gift of writing from her perspective.
For our part, as readers, we’re thrilled to read you here, and I join the voices that look forward to seeing you take the path which eluded your Mom. Carry on with enthusiastic support.
I am going to visit for one whole week this month and I plan to take my new little notepad and write and take notes while I am there.. She may have told you this but apparently I encouraged her to write when she joined Nerdnosh, telling her to ‘just write’.
I wrote over a hundred short stories on Nerdnosh over several years in the 1990s. The idea from Tim, and his late brother Reloj, Bowden was like a campfire with friends…everyone takes a turn at telling a story. And we even had two real campfires (one in Durango and another on the Pacific Ocean beach south of SF). I don’t know if I would remember your mom’s writing but I was of the opinion there were no bad writers because folks on that group shared a piece of themselves. Writers on that group bared their soul in a manner seldom seen in today’s writing. One of the greatest compliments paid me during that time was a comment that my writing was very non pretentious. I’ll bet the same could have been said to your mother. Warmest regards.
You are so much your mother’s daughter! Do it not only for her but for yourself! I am one of those from that group that loved reading her words. And yours….please give her my loving thoughts when you next speak.
I will, and thanks for reading!