It Matters More Now

It's funny how before my kids were born I had all this time to write, think, keep my house in order, play the piano, and all the other things that keep me grounded and full of purpose, but now that my kids are born, well, making time to work at these things is pretty darn hard, but doing them matters so much more to me. It's like, when I write something now, it seems more lasting, more precious to me somehow. Maybe my kids will want to read through my journals someday, and maybe they won't, or maybe they will just like to know that they have something their mother wrote in their possession. Whatever the situation may someday be...I'd like to leave words behind for my girls that mean something to them. And when my kids hear me playing the piano every now and again, I want them to hear something sweet or comforting in the music, rather than hearing "old classical music and hymns that mom played instead of spending time with us". And I certainly don't want washing dishing to trump getting down on the floor and playing memory with my kids, but I do want them to have a comfortable, clean home in which to thrive. So, how in the heck do I not cross over this fine line from working at things that matter in special ways to the dark side of a mom too into "me time" and her own pursuits to remember to notice and really see her children? For all you mommies with passions and hobbies and dreams out there, this is not a rhetorical question. Seriously...how do y'all suggest keeping on the right side of the line? At this point...I'm thinking it shouldn't be that big of a problem, because I am thinking of my daughters and my role as a mother in some way as I perform every little task I do. But I realize that as kids grow up and become more independent, then this may be more difficult to do...maybe?...I don't know.

Inspired.

So here I am...blogging again. I completely slacked off on this pursuit during the month of July, but let me tell you...this was an intentional slacking off. There were times during the last month when I started to log on to blogspot and get a-goin' again, but then I thought to myself, "Brittany, Brittany, Brittany...you are exhausted. You are uncomfortable due to the blessings of the third trimester of a third pregnancy. You are behind on work, and you have not scraped away much creative writing time for yourself this last month." All of these things in conjunction with all sorts of other randomness meant that anything I sat down to write on here would be a little too melancholy, and possibly, a little too whiny for my posting taste and definitely too pessimistic for your reading pleasure, whoever "you" are, if "you" even exist. And if "you" do exist, then I apologize for neglecting you for the last month, but you have my word that it was for your own good.

So, I am back from a wonderful trip to Kentucky. I am finishing up one of my final online teaching assignments before taking a little time off. And I am writing again. Of course, I am still a bit uncomfortable, but this really is nothing to complain about considering that the above mentioned things have put me in a much better state of mind than I have been in. I really do think the number one change in my mood has been my trip to Kentucky. There is something about the shade of the mountains and the people and the taste of homegrown tomatoes from my family's garden (yum.) that restores me to my previously inspired self. Everytime I visit my hometown, I get so many new ideas for writing projects and so excited about sitting down with a pen and writing things down. I'm not really sure if this has more to do with the fact that I get a sense of home from being in the place where I was born and grew up, or if it has more to do with the beauty and laid back atmosphere of the specific place I am from. I tend to think that the inspiration I draw from the Appalachian Mountains has more to do with the history of a place which was able to hold on to its unique stories and food and ways of living much longer than most other places. There's something magical about a place where a writer or a painter or any other kind of artist can walk into her grandmother's kitchen and hear the same tales and songs that have been told and sung in that grandmother's family for hundreds of years. Call me old-fashioned, but that's pretty darn cool to me. Makes me want to write.

And I will write. This is me telling myself that I will make time to write, even if it means I will not sleep so much or if I need to find some other clever way of carving out time to be creative and live in the world of my characters. There really does have to be a way to make this time, because I am the kind of girl who, when inspired, will likely explode in some unattractive manner if I do not get out my inspiration by putting words down on paper.

Oh and while on the topic of writing, I'll also note that I have a goal to write down all the silly little smart things my daughters are saying on a regular basis now. I have to write down their funny statements or else I will be so sad one day if I cannot remember to tell my oldest that she called my dad an "ol' stick in the mud" or that my younger daughter finally decided to use complete phrases just so she could tell her daddy to "wait a second" when he told her to do something.

If a trip to Kentucky and clever little girls fail to inspire me, then I don't know what would. This is going to be a much better month.

Who is this Girl?

I am the kind of girl who visits the mailbox multiple times a day when waiting for a package or some news. I am the kind of girl who cannot focus on anything else when there is a pressing or exciting matter unresolved. I am the kind of girl who sets a goal, and always reaches it, though usually at the expense of every other little thing in my life. Or at least that used to be this girl.

But here I am with a completed novel and no agent. Two agents have requested the full manuscript and have it, but I am somehow staying calm while waiting on word from them. I have final essays to grade this week, not to mention other teaching obligations. There is more laundry to do, a dishwasher and dish rack to unload, and there are so, so many other chores that need to be done. Cheerios are everywhere in my house they should not be. Yet, I took my kids to the zoo and then out for a treat at a coffee shop today. Somehow I am not stressed at all about my unpublished novel or my ever growing to-do list. Who is this girl?

Really, I don't know. I don't know if I have stressed myself out for so long that I am now numb to anticipation, disappointment, excitement, anxiety, and all those other feelings I have always known so well. Or maybe God has granted me a day off from my usually crazy self. Or it's possible that motherhood is mellowing me out. Who knows? Not me, and you know, I don't even need to know. See what I mean? This is Mellow Brittany.

The Thing about Jane Austen, One of Them Anyway

I'm not obsessed with everything Jane Austen. Writing fiction comes more naturally to me than non-fiction. And those are two statements that go together quite well, as one certainly proves the other, and makes me not a liar, but a writer. I just cannot get enough of Austen's characters. They are so darn clear in my mind, so fully developed and wonderfully flawed. I feel I know them better than most flesh and blood people around me. And truth be told, I am not only completely head-over-heals in love with Jane Austen's work, but I am also quite smitten with the search and discovery of sequels written by other Austen admirers. Sure, some of these sequels can be a bit sappy and not remotely up to par with Miss Austen, but one must do what one must to get a glimpse into the continuing lives of characters whose stories were ended much, much too soon. When I read Pride and Prejudice or Northanger Abbey, it's the characters, not necessarily the stories, that pull me in towards another night of squinty eye reading and sleeplessness. And ain't it kind of funny that the thing I adore most about Austen's novels is the thing that has twisted around into an issue for me in my own writing? Character development just pours out of me when I write, which could be a good thing...BUT, it is often the only thing that pours out of me when I write.



Story development. Plot. That is stinking hard for me. It's just about as slow as a pesky little algebra equation. Thankfully though, I don't despise developing a story as much as I do algebra, but still...it can be tough to actually make things happen. I can sketch a character all day...100 pages of character sketch...all in a day's work. Fifteen pages of plot development, now that's a day's work, real work. It is a wonderful thing though, when I see these characters from my mind, whom I really do care about, in a scene with things happening around them and to them. They're not just sketches any more, not just word pictures, but they're active and tested, and this makes a writer, and a reader, really get them on a new level. Maybe this whole process is an itty bitty glimpse of what I'll experience when I send my kids to kindergarten or send them out in the world. I mean, I have my little ones home with me, in this protected, controlled environment, and they are just precious here. They have funny little personalities and are so special and clever and enchanting, but when they will go outside their home and experience new and different things, then I'll see them in a new light as they make friends and help people and decide what matters to them in the outside world. So there it is, the thing about Jane Austen, well one of the many, many things, is not only did she give us girls Mr. Darcy to dream of and Miss Eliza Bennet to admire, but she can reach straight out of the 1800's and make me get all dreamy and emotional just thinking about my kids going outside of my house. Now that's something. The ability of a writer to create characters who live on for centuries, and who attach themselves to a reader's mind, even when that reader is a twenty-something country girl from across the pond. I cannot even fathom what that sort of creation would feel like. I think it's pretty great to simply create a character who is real to my own mind. That simple creation is really all the power a writer needs, of course, what a writer may want for her characters is a different thing.





And here's a little fact about this ridiculous mom here: I read Northanger Abbey to my toddlers. The whole thing. And you know, they actually listened intently to at least a fifth or so of it. My little troopers.

Salt the Sugar

So I'm blogging. Me, the girl whose favorite smell is the mustiness of old books. And me, the girl who would love more than anything to be from a different time; a time without computers and television sets, and of course, cell phones. Does anyone else out there think that electrical cords strewn across a floor sort of color away the beauty of a place? Maybe not, but that's fine. After 26 years on this earth, I have finally come to a place where I can play the role of me, the genuine, quircky, old-fashioned, country, dreamy me, who God created me to be. So why blog? Because as bakers know, you should not be afraid to add some salt in with the sugar. It balances out the sweetness, and strangely, brings out the sweetness a little more. I love to write. Writing is a sweet, sweet thing for me, so in order to make a nicer place for writing in my life, I'm adding a little technology, a little salt, to my writing.

I want this blog to be a place of honesty. I'll be here to write about the toddler years and infancy of my beautiful daughters, my quest to steal away moments to write and to get my novel published. I'll comment on what I'm reading, thinking, doing that day, and also what I'm not doing...which is often a much longer list than what I am doing. Where do all these motherhood tasks come from? It's like a new chore is invented for me to do everyday? I mean, I lived 20 years of my life before I even knew people cleaned baseboards. And cleaning potty seats? Repairing favorite toys? I would be just fine if I lived the rest of my life without cleaning out another diaper bag. But there are good "chores", too. I'll braid my three year-old daughter's hair and teach my almost-2 year-old to sing songs my parents taught me all day long. Those hard chores make it possible to cherish the wonderful ones. It's that salt and sugar thing again.

So I'm blogging. Thanks for reading.