OMG I haven’t finished anything in 3 years


Exhibit B: so stinking sweet

I mean, I knew how it would be, so I’m not complaining exactly. Maybe lament? Lament is fair, I think.

It just kind of hit me strangely as I was pushing Iris around the block on her scooter, Ollie asleep in his carrier, knowing that with Easter coming up I have a whole string of very long days ahead on the parenting front. Three years is a long time not to finish a project. And I have large chunks of two different books written, so I do actually write. I just can’t sustain anything. Because: colds, babies, laundry, dishes, teething, deprivations both mental and physical.

This was the right time for our kids, and nobody is making me stay home. But life is rarely as black or white as all that.

Sometimes I wonder if I don’t finish things for psychological reasons.

You know, like I’m afraid of failure or afraid of success or afraid of whatever sounds most legit at the time. Pondering my mental health is always a good time, but I don’t really think that has much to do with it.

Or maybe it’s just that writing is hard. Although writing was always hard. And I still finished things before.

Maybe it is kids.

It’s hard to know what to fix sometimes. It’s hard to weigh my kids’ inevitable freak out if I leave the house with my own inevitable freak out if I don’t. Sometimes it all just feels like a lot of freaking out.

A lot of it is not having external deadlines.

On the plus side, it’s given the stories an unusually long time to percolate. And I realized today, somewhere around the block with Iris waving hello to every fire hydrant, that on some deeper, unplanned level one of the stories is about purpose and the other is about happiness, and sometimes my switching between them has nothing to do with unconscious fears of failure and everything to do with the ideas churning up at the time in my own life.

Two of my brothers are writing a collaborative book of essays about our childhood vacations at Disney World, and last week Joel emailed me his latest piece on aesthetic appropriation. You know. The way Disney mimics and recreates other places, and the way we as kids mimicked and recreated Disney in our own stories and ideas about travel and culture. It was an insightful, fun read, but while aesthetic appropriation is obviously huge in anyone’s creativity, I think emotional appropriation is the bigger playground for me.

There is nothing autobiographical about any of my plots, unless you count “and then she grew up” as plot, but the emotional lives of my characters are always very vivid and familiar to me… although, of course, I have varying success getting that on the page. And I think this is why it’s been hard for me to finish anything lately. The equation of very limited time with having two books with such enormous topics—it’s like every day I pull up the lobster trap of my daily experience to see if I’ve got anything useful for either of my works-in-progress, and let me tell you, that is a killer slow way to finish a book.

Or maybe I’m overthinking it and it really isn’t anything more profound than the fact that it’s really hard to write with a baby giggling and farting and fussing on your lap.

I feel like that’s probably fair too.

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On Being a Christian and Being Tired

There are a lot of great things about having kids, but it definitely changes your processing style. Gone are the days of dropping everything to think, research, be angry, stare out windows, figure stuff out.

So, yes.

While the rest of the world moves on to newer news, I’m still mulling over the World Vision decision/retraction news from last week… reading articles and absently passing crackers to Ollie in his highchair while Iris takes large bites straight off a block of cheddar. (Not kidding about any of that, btw).

And I don’t know if this is right, wrong, or ignorant, but given that I only have a limited amount of energy to spend engaging on social media, I generally try to restrict myself to topics where I have some chance of being informed. I know a lot about being female in a Christian fundamentalist world. I know something about abuse and childhood trauma. I have a distant shot at adding to conversations about marriage and kids—if only because that’s my parking space these days. And I don’t know anyone who likes to get contentious about the murder mystery genre, but if that ever comes up in my feed you can bet I’ll be on it like white on rice.

But here’s what I think:

I believe no single group has the right to define what it means to be legally married in a secular country. Honestly, I find it kind of bizarre that this is seen as a debatable issue in our culture, but there you go. Apparently it is.

For people attempting to live out the Christian faith as understood in the Bible, of course, the issue is slightly more complicated. I understand that, because I also tend to take the Bible seriously in my personal life. Which, let’s be honest, is a bit more complicated for women than for men. So I’m used to questioning things and having to find my own way a bit. But I absolutely believe in God. I am blown away by the humanity and deity of Jesus. I have no problem affirming anything in the Apostles’ Creed.

And yet.

This week has worn me out.

I’m tired of being told that love and righteousness are in tension. They’re not.

I’m tired of being told that you can love someone and reject them at the same time. I literally do not understand how that’s supposed to work. (And if I hear the “woman caught in adultery” story one more time on this I will punch you in the face. The next time you save a gay person from being murdered, you just might have the credibility to comment on his life choices.)

I’m tired of seeing the word TRUTH in all caps. Please stop.

I’m tired of the idea that correct beliefs are mandatory while correct actions are optional.

I’m tired of people pretending there aren’t genuine Christians on every point of this spectrum and debate.

I’m tired of having my spirituality questioned because I can’t be suitably condemning on this. Trust me, it’s not that I don’t believe in questioning my spiritual commitments.  I question them all the time—when I speak in anger to my kids, when I fail to check in with a friend who’s suffering, when I get myopically and exclusively focused on the little doings inside my own house… But I have never questioned my spirituality for being too compassionate. I’m not sure that level exists, but if it does it’s probably like a bonus round they give you if your heavenly welcoming party gets held up. In other words, that’s not the test I’m worried about failing.

Mostly… I’m tired of waiting to hear back from my church.

Faith is a hard thing.

Hope is a hard thing.

Love, I think, is the hardest of all.

Seeking Clarity



I’m only half finished with the book, and I know it’s got a bad case. Weird how hard it is to stay razor-focused when writing in 200 word chunks over a year and a half span. Agh!

So this is me, banging out a synopsis for reference and printing out chapters with a big, red pen in hand.

Let’s do this!

… tomorrow?

Revision is hard!


Betrayal: CU Style

I am at heart a curmudgeon.

I know this, and you know this, but reading Facebook this morning reminded me of it in a whole new way. The Christian liberal arts college I attended—now twelve or thirteen years ago—just announced they were killing their entire theatre program, and the visceral screams of all my theatre college friends are still echoing through my feed.

And it IS terrible, ridiculous, sad, and frustrating.

Art brings beauty and understanding to life in a way nothing else can, and if you aren’t giving your students places to foster, articulate, explore, and grow as entire PEOPLE, then the claim to education starts to get pretty sketchy.

But that wasn’t actually my first thought.

My first thought was one of those simple impulses that, often unfortunately, tell you so much about yourself. My thought was just:

What did you expect?

My college friends are bright, creative, interesting people. They worked really hard to build up the theatre program and community. They invested a lot. They made lifelong relationships and were changed for the better by the experience, and those are all really good things.

But however enlightened I aspire to be, however many zen books I read, and no matter how many deep breaths I seem to take, it’s starting to look like there will always be a part of me with a pickup truck and a sawed off shotgun living off the grid in the woods some place.

What do you expect from life, from institutions, from other people?

It’s hard enough to find people worth trusting, but institutions? Forget it. Not businesses, not governments or schools, not churches, political affiliations, or religions. It’s not personal, and only sometimes is it evil. In fact, the whole thing is probably best summed up in the first statement. It’s not personal. Most people are living so hand-to-mouth emotionally and spiritually there’s very little left over to care about anyone or anything else. My friends care about the theatre program because it meant something really special to them. The administration just sees a financial spreadsheet that ends in zeroes.

As for me, I have the luxury of not being heartbroken because my primary identity was more literary than theatrical. I participated, but I didn’t live it. I was a commuter, three years out of step with my peers in age and self-confidence. I watched the dust move lazily in the windows of the library instead. I wrote. I did my own thing.

And it’s been a long twelve years for me.

But trust me on this: I am not unfamiliar with the emotions of betrayal.

I also know what comes after: a lot of processing, a lot of sorting, a lot of letting go. Honestly, I think this announcement mostly feels poignant to me because it mirrors other betrayals in my life, and I’ve often wondered if the changes those hard times have etched on me are more good or bad.

I think there’s a lot of value in learning over time to focus on the things within your own control, to live in the present and not the past, to expect very little from other people. To cultivate an appreciation for that life off the grid with the pickup. But, of course, there’s always the other side of the coin. I can’t tell you how many times people have finished a story of some interaction gone sour by staring at me expectantly, and I have literally no idea how to respond though they obviously expect some kind of emotional reaction. Like wow, those people suck! or I can’t believe he said that! When all I’m thinking is: Yep. Totally not surprised those people did that. Totally believe he said that.

Sometimes I feel that I’m an unusually cold, cynical, or angry person. Sometimes I can’t relate to other people’s euphoric sense of community or identification with an institution. Sometimes it’s their surprised sense of injustice that throws me instead.

Good, bad, a mixture of the two. It’s life, I guess.

And life is what you make it. The end of an academic program doesn’t change or diminish the good memories I have from my own days there. Friendships will not falter or fall away because a program no longer exists. And opportunities will always exist for the people determined to find them—maybe not at CU, but somewhere. Art and theatre and friendship and community will go on. Before there was a theatre major there were still CU graduates moving to LA and doing residencies at theaters and directing plays in their new home towns. I know because my older sibs and in-laws and friends are those people.

Life goes on, even if it is harder. Then again, sometimes the life and art you build for yourself is all the more valuable for being hard.

Use the Right Tools

IMG_3546This was Iris yesterday, standing out in the rain, proudly holding up a stick she’d found as an umbrella, peeved to find it didn’t really work.

I held Oliver under the covered porch and watched her experiment, putting out a hand to check periodically.

Still raining.

Just my reminder of the day that there’s a time and a tool for everything. Sometimes hard work isn’t all it takes. Sometimes it’s ok for money to be the answer. Sometimes negative emotions are deeply appropriate, and sometimes (rarely) a stick can’t be anything you want it to be.

Use the right tools.

8 Things I Don’t Even Care About Right Now

1. The start of baseball season. Carl asked me today if I was excited for this. Since Carl doesn’t really care about baseball, I mostly think he uses these types of questions to gauge how much I can hear when I’m reading. I heard him enough to say the thought had literally never crossed my mind.

2. Parenting styles. Attachment, Ferber, Tiger, French… I don’t even care. Keep your kids safe, people, and give them hugs.

3. US politics. I’m not proud of this. I think people should care, and I intend to read lots of the political articles that show up in my feed. And then I totally don’t.

4. Christmas. Remember how exciting it was the first time it snowed, and everything looked so magical? Me neither. Going to be a long nine months before I fall for that nonsense again.

5. Don Draper. True Detective just ended last week. Don’t even talk to me.

6. Split Infinitives.

7. Being popular. Remember when that was super important? Gosh, it’s been a long time since church youth group.

8. Meatloaf. Singer or dish.

Creativity and Setting Limits

IMG_3508 copyExcited about mixed-media; discovering new magazines; Tinkerbell movies and playing with pixie dust; sap flow; maple syrup; spring; home renovation projects; memoir; writing; art; life; catching a miserable, horrible cold.

These were all things rocketing around my brain as I watched the kids get sleepy, just on the cusp of a nap, my mind already wandering ahead to my wordcatch of the day.

Things I wanted to write about. Ideas I wanted to express, capture, craft.

Limit-setting isn’t something we often think about in discussions of creativity, but for those of us hoping to make a career out of it, the two are mostly just flip sides of the same coin. There are the obvious connections, of course. If you’re not very good at limiting that Netflix habit, it’s awfully hard to pound out a 400 page novel.

But there are more subtle traps too.

I, for example, have grown a fat and disorderly desktop of half-finished art pieces since starting my Project 52. Having good ideas hasn’t been a problem. I’ve started watercolor illustrations for this book I also haven’t written, gotten half way through a zentangle inspired trio of north woods animals, played with geometrical shape paintings, and fallen in love with mixed media. (You guys, you get to include JOURNALING!!)

There is nothing wrong with any of these ideas.

But, hard truth alert: You can be the most creative person in the world and still have nothing to show for it at the end of the day.

Here are some of things I’ve been learning about setting limits lately:

1. Think of them as separate activities (and stay organized): this is classic advice, right? Any writer out there will tell you for the love of all that’s publishable not to waste your writing time looking up that one street name or researching 18th century surgical instruments. That’s solid advice, but I’ve also gotten swamped by coming up with too many interesting themes/characters/etc for one book, and then it turns into a saga, and before you know it you’ve landed in a diffuse trilogy. Just don’t. If you’re organized enough, you don’t even have to think about it. Set aside times to let your mind go crazy generating ideas and times for dedicated work. Whittle ideas down to the salient bones and then file accordingly. Characters; incidents; settings that made your mind explode with possibility.

2. Respect your creative energy (you only get so much of it). I was floored when I realized a few months ago that my output as a mom is about 50-75% what it was when I was writing full time. So, to rephrase: 8 hours of golden silence a day vs. two kids in two years, a variable sleep deficit, and 12-14 hour days 7 days a week. My productivity, it seems, has very little to do with having major responsibilities and a whole lot to do with focus and a drama-free lifestyle. I wasted a lot of time in those first couple of years feeling insecure about myself and my abilities, obsessing over family dramas and working to get clean from the codependency drama I grew up with. Having kids actually made life a lot simpler. I don’t have time for this, is basically my feeling about all interpersonal drama, and whatever it was that used to Hamlet it up in my brain about existential purpose has apparently died because I just don’t hear it anymore. I make no excuses for prioritizing peace. The fewer holes in my bucket, the more water I have when I get home. It really is that simple.

3. Focus on the things you’re gaining (clarity! complexity!). Setting limits often feel sad. There’s no way around that. If your crime-solving, hunchbacked ginger with PTSD and a penchant for donuts doesn’t ALSO play classical guitar and turn out to be his own nemesis in a denouement involved trap doors it can be sad. You’re allowed to mourn. On the other hand, think of what you’re gaining. Clarity is a hard-won gem, and clarity comes from restraint. One of my saddest days as a writer was the day I realized my novel would never work as it was because I’d written one of my supporting characters into a second protagonist. Can there be two protags? Of course, but not the way I’d set this book up. Since I loved both of them, the only nonbandaid solution was to rip the story in half and develop two separate books. Clunky and time-consuming. I’ll probably get around to it eventually, but the wind, as they say, is still knocked out of those sails. The other thing worth gaining is the possibility for complexity. Complexity isn’t just a lot of random, entry-level crap pasted together. There are a lot of great thrillers and epics out there, but for most of us wanting to write a rich, complex novel we’re probably going to have to write about something a little more specific than THE CIVIL WAR. You know?

I can not believe the kids are still sleeping. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go work on my oceanic mixed media project. BECAUSE I SWEAR I’M FINISHING THIS ONE BEFORE I START ANYTHING ELSE.

(Disclosure: I totally have a list in my journal of all the other great ideas I keep having).