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Muddling Through Mud

I’ve been working on the same book idea for 4 years now. Some days I’m in love with it. Some days I’m hovering over the delete key. At some point, I’d like to be done. But the more I delve into it, the less likely that seems.

Every new person that reads my work points out, in varying degrees, problems. This is normal. Writing is about drafts, drafts, and more drafts. Intellectually I understand that. But it’s exhausting and disheartening to get crisp white papers back full of blood. Every time. No matter how many good things they say, it’s the bad ones I remember. It’s the bad ones I have to try to fix. And so many times, I have no idea how.

Day after day I pour my soul into my story. And lately, I feel like all I’m making is mud. farmto table (2)

This is not a post written to gain sympathy. I simply want to be honest. And this is where I am in my current MFA journey, one packet in and very discouraged. I’m tired, my heart hurts, and when my heart hurts, I write. Thus this self-indulgent, depressing post. 😉

I don’t have any real solutions to add. There’s not going to be a big hopeful but and the end of this. I will, however, offer a small one: even on my worst days, I can’t imagine stopping. Trying to stuff my dreams and my stories back in would be like trying to put a full Kleenex box back together after my two-year-old has ripped out all the tissues and scattered them all over the house.

So I guess I keep going. Maybe the mud will clear. Maybe the blood will dwindle. Maybe I’ll make it; maybe I won’t.

All I know, is there’s no way in hell I’m getting all those damn tissues back in that box.

 

Writing Prompt

I’ve been having a wonderful, overwhelming time so far at my MFA residency. Today, true to my word, at least for now, I wanted to share a little snippet of an event with you.

I attended a lecture from a graduating student about incorporating trauma into your writing. At the end she gave us a prompt and asked us to write about a difficult event from our past: what was important, what you remember, what you don’t.

We were short on time, we only had five minutes, but it was an interesting exercise. This is what I wrote:

What matters is this.

My grandma forgot who I was.

I was in 7th, maybe 8th grade.

We were watching TV, I don’t remember what.

My grandma was in a chair.

I was on the floor, pulling on the long carpet strands.

She called me a beautiful girl.

Asked who I was.

I couldn’t answer.

Someone did, my dad or my grandpa.

There was a nightmare.

She thew snakes.

My grandma forgot who I was.

My mother promised me she wouldn’t.

Mom’s Going Back to School

Approximately two hours ago I (ok my husband) loaded up the car with probably more stuff than I needed. It was pouring rain as I pulled down the driveway. A spider man helmet got stuck underneath the car and I had to get out, turning my curled hair into a frizzy mess, while my husband pushed the car backwards to free it. My two oldest sons raced me to the corner. I let them win, then I waved goodbye.

And now I’m here, at the Lied Lodge in Nebraska City. My luggage is unpacked. (ish- stop judging) My residency package is picked up. All that is left is to wait for the first meeting, and wondering what I’ve gotten myself into and if I’m going to make it out.IMG_20180713_151458

I was talking to one of my aunts a couple days ago. She commented that motherhood hasn’t changed who I am. At first, I didn’t agree. There are oceans, mountains, planets between the person I was six and a half years ago and the person I am now. Most days, I feel like an exhausted wisp of my former self. “Yeah, I used to be smart,” is a common retort of mine. But as I reflected longer, I realized, though I have changed, it’s not in the negative, and all-consuming way it sometimes feels.

Motherhood has made me, more me, which I believe was exactly her point. It’s forced me to be more honest about myself. It’s shed light on anxiety issues I’d previously been able to hide with careful planning. It’s forced me make more specific, more confident requests:

“Yes, I am sure I want you to pick up those toys, even if you are going to play with them sometime in the next 10 years.”

It’s made me focus on what’s actually important.

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And now reader, if you’re wondering what any of this has to do with me beginning my master’s program, here it is:

Old me, the one with brain power, and free time, secretly wanted to be a writer. A real one with a book, or several, on the shelf and another formulating on her computer. But old me would not have signed up for this program and pushed to make this dream into a goal.

So, although three children ago might have been an easier time to decide to enroll full-time in graduate school and be away from home for 10 days a semester, although I might have felt more quick witted and less frazzled, although my biggest hesitations now center around my children and how they will cope, I know it is because of them, not in spite of them that I’m here.

No, I don’t have hours a day to stare blankly into the heart of my computer and come up with a masterpiece. No, I haven’t suddenly turned into an extrovert who loves meeting new people. Of course I’m going to miss my family like crazy.

But I wrangle three small humans, bent on mutual destruction, on a daily basis now. So yes I’ve changed. And Yes I’m the same.

And yes, I can do this.IMG_20180713_165755

I’m planning to document my creative writing MFA (Masters of Fine Art) adventure here on this blog and to be faithful about writing regular posts about my experiences and progress. So, if you’re a mom on a mission, an aspiring author, or you’re my relative and feel obligated, make sure you check back! And, to make it easier, if you follow the blog you’ll get an update when I publish something new.

Thanks for visiting!!!