this woman’s work

This post was inspired by Paige and my sister visiting on Thursday and the three of us talking about books and things and making each other sniffle:

1. The ending to Good Night, Mr. Tom (this book is FABULOUS but my god, the ending! The closet!)
2. This scene in Toy Story 2 (even in Arabic it chokes me up)
3. This song by Jane Siberry, which I’ve written about before, Gospel According to Darkness (I’ll upload it sometime)
4. The very beginning of the stageplay The Lion King where the animals come down the aisle and the music is amazing and the artistry of the puppets is amazing and the whole goddamn thing is amazing and I started crying then and didn’t stop ’til we left the theater.
5. Reading through these quotes (my mother and I often bonded over episodes of Designing Women — feminists, we)

Now I’m all verklempft.

My sister likes to bring up that Toy Story 2 scene because just thinking about it can make me cry, especially if I’m with her and we’ve been laughing a lot so I’m already kinda hysterical. (It’s the way she snuggles down close to her little girl! And then she’s in the trash! My GOD! It’s heart-wrenching!)

Here’s another thing to do for sport. There’s this terrible picture book. It’s terrible! Especially if you have father issues. It’s about a little girl who dances and her father loves to watch her dance, which is all really moving with this beautiful illustrations. But then at the end she’s an adult and he dies and she’s in there while he’s dying and one last time she dances for him and that’s bad enough. Even though it’s maudlin and ridiculous, it will make you cry. And then! And then you read the front of the book and the pictures in the book were inspired by pictures of a real live little girl who died tragically in a car accident! And then! And then again! The proceeds of the book go to some child abuse foundation! The sobbing never ends! So one day I happen to pick this up in the bookstore and am sobbing (but trying to do it quietly, which means my throat just closes up and aches) then my friend comes to look and I hand it to her and she starts crying. Then our third friend wanders over and we make her read it and she cries, too. It’s ridiculous. I felt like I did watching Mr. Holland’s Opus because I was thinking, “This is so manipulative! Sheesh!” and I’m crying into my popcorn anyway. That’s how this book is.

Oh and one more thing that makes me cry just to talk about it but it’s funny. There’s a scene in my new favorite PMS days movie, Carla and Connie (perfect double feature with Camp) where the women are singing “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina,” which makes me cry anyway. (I even used to cry while stair-stepping to Madonna’s disco version — what can I say? I love me the showtunes!) So in this scene they’re singing this part, “But all you have to do is look at me / To know that every word is true…” the music swells and then, “DON’T CRY FOR ME ARGENTINA!” And the whole audience of showtune loving queens stands up with their arms over their head, a la Eva Peron herself. Love it love it!

So what ridiculous things make you choke up?

Songs to download are below the cut!
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Gettin’ Smaller In the Rearview Mirror: Cry, Cry, Cry

I’ve got a mini-version of the Stendhal syndrome going on here. Lines of songs that are in no way sad just get me, and I am powerless to prevent the catch in my throat or the tears welling in my eyes. This would be poignant if the songs weren’t so … not sad.

Stendhal syndrome, Sandra tells us, is “this emotional response to art that manifests itself physically.” Then she lists lines of songs that make her choke up. I’m going to do that, too. My list (a whole lot of these have to do with delivery):
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Got any to add? The Top 25 Saddest Songs of All Time

My sister’s favorite from her K-Tel Golden Hits was Run Joey Run. I vote for Jane Siberry’s song about sitting by her mother’s deathbed, The Vigil (The Sea), which I adore (although I admit that the woman could make armpit noises into a microphone and I’d gush but this is really good).

Today is the second day of me not looking at my article while I wait to get word from Becca. I’m scared to get word, actually. This is what will happen when she sends back the piece with her thoughts:

1. I will see her email come in and I will start to hyperventilate and I will get light-headed;

2. I will be afraid to open it;

3. I will shut my eyes and double-click;

4. I will be afraid to read it;

5. I will grab two girl scout cookies and read it anyway;

6. I will be be happy at first because Becca always says nice things first, like a good critic;

7. I will get cocky and will read along further;

8. I will get annoyed;

9. I will get mad;

10. I will eat two more girl scout cookies and stomp around the kitchen fuming and spewing cookie crumbs as I cuss under my breath at her;

11. I will cry;

12. I will decided that she’s nuts and wouldn’t know a great piece of writing if it bit her on her tush;

13. I will have to admit that I’m wrong about this;

14. I will sit back down and re-read what’s she’s written;

15. I will begin to nod my head in agreement;

16. I will get inspired;

17. I will get to work.

Back to what I learned this week: I learned that I love love love to do this kind of writing. This piece has been a ton of work. I did many many many interviews (only one of which got in the piece but many of which informed it). I read 25+ studies. I scoured anti- and pro-adoption web sites. I got seriously off track as I over-read about adoption reform and spoke to some people about it. I confronted many of my own issues around adoption and dug around in my soul for my thoughts and feelings about our relationship with J. I had eleven (yes eleven!) false starts that went nowhere and more notes than I know what to do with. And you know what? The piece might not get published — even with Becca’s brilliant editing and the feedback from other genius writing friends, it might all be for nought, the work and angst and late nights. But I loved it. This is what I want to do with the rest of my life.

This article was supposed to be a test to see if I felt like I could write the kind of book I’d like to write and I think I can and I know I really want to. But I have no idea if my test article will get published (meaning can I live with the rejection after all that hard work — likely but I will be very very sad and my ego will be sorely bruised) and even if it does, I have no idea if anyone will want me to write a book. But that’s my goal although it terrifies me to admit it to you all.

The other problem (besides, you know, the one about how maybe no one will want to publish this kind of writing from me) is that this article took a lot of time and fitting that into my life was extremely difficult; it’s the biggest reason it took so long. For the past month I’ve been eating, sleeping, breathing and dreaming anti-adoption. That part hasn’t been so awful but finding the time to sit down and work has been incredibly hard.

Here’s what I want to do. I want to see if this piece gets published. Then I want to start researching the book I think I want to write. (Interestingly, the anti-adoption article morphed a lot during the process but ended up being essentially what I pitched when all was said and done.) If I feel like there is a book in there, I will commit to finding a part-time mother’s helper so that I can work on a decent proposal.

The other thing I realized is that I need to quit fretting about whether or not I should be writing more service pieces (I already write about one a month for my job). I have to quit feeling guilty and inadequate about (not) querying.

Cecily pointed out in my tips post that I work for the kind of magazine that I don’t think people should read. Ummm, good point. I have to in order to pay the bills and all that but I don’t have to do anymore than that. Reading most consumer mags makes me sad and querying them makes me sadder and getting rejections from them makes me sadder still. I have to STOP. I have to quit worrying about it. Why is this so hard?

The other day I met Becca at a bookstore and I had a pile of glossy magazines in front of me because I was going to go through them and study them for future pitches. She flipped through them and gave me a look and told me to put them back. So I did — with relief.

I want to write horribly difficult pieces that nobody wants to publish or at least only a very few. It will be hard and awful. I will get depressed many times because the market is small and competitive. I will miss the mark often and then cringe when someone else does a great piece on the very same subject. But that’s what I want to do. I want to write articles that require me to over-research, over-interview and — sweetest of these! — over-think my subject.

It really scares me to commit to being the kind of writer I want to be. What if I don’t have the chops??? Who the hell do I think I am, anyway?

Well, at least I will have my regularly assigned product round-ups to keep me humble. (Some pig.)

Now playing on iTunes: “When Spring Comes” from the album Teenager by Jane Siberry

Last night before I went out, we watched Bugsy Malone. I hadn’t seen that movie in over twenty years and I wondered whether or not I would still like it. Well, “like” is a strong word but I maintain my happy nostalgia for it. I had a crush on Knuckles when I was a kid (I always had a thing for boys with big noses) and am afraid he didn’t go onto bigger things although he did have a part in Lords of Discipline. Noah enjoyed it quite a bit, of course, and after dinner he threw himself around the family room pretending he was getting pelted by whipped cream. Madison enjoyed being in the forbidden playroom (too many Playmobil small parts) and bouncing on the giant ball we have down there.

I had a wonderful time last night but got home late and then Madison had missed me so she was up about four times between midnight and 7am. I had trouble getting to sleep anyway because I was wired so I’m a little foggy today. The boys are at some car show with my dad so it’s just me and Madison for the day.

Amber and Eve were helping me figure out the place where I’m stuck in my article (you know, the beginning, the middle and the end) and I finally got down the segue I was struggling with. It helps so much to talk these things out and I’m really hoping that this summer I can organize an in real life writing group. Whenever I read the acknowledgments in a book and the author writes, “And thank you to the fabulous members of my writing group for their unwavering support and criticism” I think, I need to get me a writing group. Virtual writing groups are swell but nothing beats having a face-to-face discussion with someone. I only lament that Becca won’t be around to be in it.

Ok, that’s enough blogging. I’m really updating as an excuse to stick this picture of Madison from when we were on our walk today. As you’ll notice, I’m not hiding the pics anymore — I got too lazy, I guess.

Now playing on iTunes: “Song To My Father (Original And New Recording)” from the album Teenager by Jane Siberry

Crabby and loved by some asks us all:

1. Total amount of music files on your computer:
1651 songs –v7.05 GB — 4.4 days (so far)

2. The last CD you bought was:
That I bought myself was Alison Kraus “Brand New Dance” but Brett buys me CDs (the latest being Sondheim’s first musical “Saturday Night”) and I buy music online (Jolie Holland’s album) and my friend just let me rip several of her CDs including the Belle & Sebastian I then took home in my computer by mistake.

3. What is the song you last listened to before reading this message?
This Monkey’s Gone to Heaven by The Pixies

4. Write down 5 songs you often listen to or that mean a lot to you.

–The Gospel According to Darkness by Jane Siberry (because it reminds me of my mom)
–Angels by The Jazz Butcher Conspiracy (because it reminds me of my youth)
–Summertime as sung by Sarah Vaughan (or Noah) (because it’s so damn beautiful)
–Child of Mine by Mae Robertson (because it reminded me of my kids even before I had any)
–Swing by Ani DiFranco (because it reminds me of J)

I got this from Hakinimomma. It’s long so I’m sticking it below.
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I got sad yesterday. I shouldn’t have but I did. See, my husband’s brother just had a daughter and they sent us a picture that just hit me the wrong way. They’ve sent us a lot of pictures (he’s a photographer anyway and so when I say “a lot” I really mean A LOT) but this one looked like Noah when he was small.

My husband has extremely powerful genes, as does his father and apparently his brothers. All the men in that family are cut from the same cloth — tall and lean with unique slanty eyes. Noah looks just like them. You line up Gramps with his three sons and his grandson and it’s striking. I love that. I love that Noah looks like his daddy and you know, I always wondered what a little girl with those same slanty eyes would look like. And here she was looking out at me in this snapshot only she wasn’t mine and so I got sad.

I was dusting and Madison was playing at my feet. I had Jane Siberry on the stereo singing something mournful so I was relishing my bluesy feeling, dusting with great concentration, humming along and not worried about Madison because — as usual — the house was in baby lockdown.

We do it like this: there’s a gate to the kitchen (cutting off the dog dish, the oven, the uncarpeted stairs to the basement) and a gate in the hall (cutting off the un-baby proofed room of her brother, the bathroom and the other two bedrooms). I spend most of my day in the very small space, which is our family room. I play with her, I read books in short, gulping glances, I type on this laptop (raising it above my head as Madison waddles by). It’s like being in a well stocked prison. Occasionally I leap one gate (to go to the bathroom) or step through the other gate (to pour another cup of coffee or grab a bottle) but my life is very much in that room.

However yesterday my sister’s son was here and he can’t manage the gates so we did something new. We shut all the doors in the hall (something we don’t do usually because then the rooms get wicked cold) so that Frankie could still get to Noah’s room and the bathroom. Madison was in love with this because she likes the long mirror on Noah’s door. She was spending most of the day admiring herself in the mirror and cooing little compliments, “Oh darling, you look marvelous! Love the hair!” For me, that was like a little bit of a day off because she wasn’t needing me to crawl around fetching her little plastic balls out from under furniture, or to shake her knotty doll to remind her of how fun it is, or to rescue her from her frustration when she still can’t reach the glass balls on the Christmas tree.

I guess I was being irresponsible. No, I know I was being irresponsible because when Noah came back from using the potty, I didn’t glance down the hall to see for myself if the door was shut.

“Is the door shut?” I asked instead, as he whizzed by to head back down to the playroom. And when he answered in the affirmative, I didn’t double-check. Why? Because I was dusting, I was lifting the frames and wiping them down thoroughly, I was rearranging my books and listening to Jane Siberry and being self-indulgent and blue.

Then at some short point later, I realized that Madison — as enamored with her own image as she is — had been down the hall for an awfully long time. Kind of a scary long time. You know what I found when I went down there, right? Sure enough, there was Madison playing in the toilet.

Now my first thought as I snatched her away was, “Eeewww!” but my second thought was, “My god, toddlers drown in toilets all of the time!”

I felt awful as well I should have. (I called Brett to ask him to absolve me but all he said was, “Did you wash her hands?” As if I’d not. I told him I dipped her in bleach and he felt much better.)

I don’t know. There was something about Violet’s eyes that looked just liked Noah’s newborn eyes and I let it get to me. But how ridiculous is that when I have this best baby right here? This gorgeous little ball of butter?

That night while I was rocking Madison to sleep, I was thinking about last year when that match fell through and we were facing the holidays without a baby. And I thought about how this year we have so much and we’re so blessed by her and how she pretty much made my mama dreams come true. So how could I even waste a minute thinking about the idea of a baby that didn’t show?

“I love you so much,” I told her. “I promise that I won’t let you every play in the toilet again, which probably seems like a downer but actually is a really good thing. You can play with some water in your high chair, ok? Is that a deal?”

She said it was because she’s a very forgiving person. No more meditating on slanty eyes for me; I learned that I’m just too busy for it.

Ok folks, I’ve burned most of the CDs and will now start packaging. I was going to make them with pretty covers but I’m not going to have time but at least the music will still sound pretty good!
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