Well, folks, I am 38 weeks pregnant. I am an ocean liner. A 90 year-old with permanently creaky hips and questionable navigation.
I am cranky, I am exhausted, and all I want to eat is ice cream. Right now, the only person in my house who does not annoy me is the dog.
That being said, this is my last post for a while. I’m due to have this baby in 6 days. So if you don’t hear from me for a little while, that’s why. I’ll try to at least get a good baby picture up here to share in a week or two, though.
In the mean time, here are some cool things I wanted to share before I head (God willing) into post natal bliss:
Credit: Richard Foreman/CBS
1.) My favorite show currently on television, NCIS, is finishing up its 10th season. That’s quite a long stretch for a TV drama, which means some kudos for the writers who keep viewers coming back week after week. That being said, Tuesday night’s episode ended on a cliffhanger, making me wonder if they’re going to kill off one of my favorite characters, a former Mossad officer-turned NCIS agent, Ziva David.
I can’t take this sort of drama with my pregnancy hormones raging. If they kill off Tony or Ziva–two characters playing ”will they or won’t they?” NCIS agents–I’ll lose it. Anyway, this interview with Cote de Pablo (the actress who plays Ziva) may fill in a few of the blanks. As a writer, I’m especially interested in the way she describes a choice with a certain scene in Tuesday night’s episode, and the way that she thinks Tony’s character is evolving … who he is as a man. Very cool.
got to mention it again. Just published this month by Beacon Press, it’s a book of essays about life as an Alaskan “trail dog,” by my friend, the writer Christine Byl. It’s already come out to great acclaim, and has been mentioned as a “favorite Spring read” in places like O Magazine and more!
I hope you’ll check it out; it’s available in hardback and as an eBook from any independent bookstore, and of course online at places like Amazon.com.
3.) Today is the birthday of Ella Fitzgerald, the ”First Lady of Song.” Originally from Virginia, she entered a talent contest when she was 16, started to freeze up, and then sang. From there, it’s history.
Ella once said, “The only thing better than singing is more singing.” So in honor of Ella, and of my current physical state caused by the baby in my belly, check out “Cry Me a River.”
That’s all, folks! Happy Weekend, and I’ll catch you on the flip side.
I am officially 37 weeks pregnant. This week, my 3 1/2 year-old said, “Mama, you sure do look funny with that great big belly.”
This just proves what I suspected when I had the said 3 1/2 year-old: Nature never intended barely 5’2″ tall women to procreate with 6’2″ tall men. In other news …
Good stuff to share on this Spring Friday!
1.) Did you know that in addition to being a Renaissance man, an incredibly gifted writer and one of the more mysterious, flawed and brilliant of the Founding Fathers, Thomas Jefferson is also likely responsible for introducing macaroni and cheese to the fine people of the United States of America?
Yep. Mac-n-cheese, coming straight to us from old T.J.
himself. Since this is one of my desert island items–you know, one of the few things you’d choose to have with you should be stranded on a desert island (my others are water, Chapstick, and my dog)–I find this a fun fact to share. Check out more of the story over at the Garden & Gun Blog. 2.) Yesterday was the birthday of Isak (Karen) Dinesen, author of many stories, but most famously of Out of Africa, the novel that inspired the movie of the same name, starring Meryl Streep and Robert Redford. Karen was a wealthy Dane who in 1913 moved from Denmark to Kenya with her husband, where they started a coffee plantation. Her time there inspired the novel, which originated as collected stories.
I’d not read Out of Africa until last year, upon entering my MFA in Writing program at the Vermont College of Fine Arts. I’d always wanted to read it, and when I mentioned adding it to my reading list my advisor at the time heartily agreed. There are some novels that affect you, that move you, the moment you set eyes on the first page, and this was one for me. Her sense of place, her gorgeous, unindulgent prose, hooked me from beginning to end.
This is a classic to revisit, or read for the first time! Read the book, then rent the movie.
I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills …. It was Africa distilled up through six thousand feet, like the strong and refined essence of a continent …. In the highlands you woke up in the morning and thought: Here I am, where I ought to be. ~ from Out of Africa 3.) Alaskan mystery/thriller/suspense writer Dana Stabenow, most well-known for her Kate Shugak series, is launching a campaign to build a new writers’ retreat for women. The Storyknife Writers’ Retreat will be the first (and so far only) retreat just for female writers in Alaska.
Stabenow was inspired to launch Storyknife by her own writerly beginnings, when she was awarded a residency at Hedgebrook, another retreat for women writers in Washington state. The time there was a gift, she says, and she wants to pass that on to other female writers.
Alaska. The Last Frontier. The Great Land. I’ve been three times (I know, life is rough): twice in the summer and once in the winter, and I spent the summer after my freshman year in college living with my youngest aunt in Anchorage. I can say with absolute certainty that there’s no place like it. For a writer, it’s inspiration central. And I first read Stabenow’s novels–mostly in the bathtub–because my aunt was a fan. So women writers, check it out and stay informed. This is an opportunity not to be missed.
Hope everyone has a great weekend. Don’t forget to grab a good book and some yummy grub. Mac and cheese, anyone?
I’ve decided it’s sort of like the guilty pleasure of reading U.S.A. Today on airline flights: you get all this great info, though brief, and it’s usually entertaining. Kind of like a buffet created only for you–based only on your tastes and interests.
I’m still figuring it out. I think I’ve only made about 24 “tweets” so far, and who knows if anyone is even interested. But I’m getting help from my husband, the marketing guy, and from new friends like the writer and blogger Hallie Sawyer, and others, who’ve suggested some wonderful folks for me to follow. Where else could I get news of my beloved Clemson Tigers, conditions on the Blue Ridge Parkway, my favorite literary journals, upcoming new episodes of NCIS (our family TV obsession), new books, cool songwriters, and more?
Better than a buffet, it’s like an ICE CREAM buffet. With all sorts of goodness–Reese’s Cups, M&Ms, sprinkles, hot fudge, Gummy Bears, crumbled candy bars, real whipped cream–just waiting to be piled upon whatever flavor you choose.
Raise your hand if you can tell I’m pregnant.
Anyway, I do hope you’ll follow me on Twitter @WritingScott. I’ll try to be interesting. And if you’ve got any great advice about navigating the Twittersphere, or know of fun folks to follow, I hope you’ll fill me in!
Just wanted to share a photo of the incredible Cherokee (or pre-Cherokee) arrowhead presented to me by a reader at a book event over the weekend. The picture doesn't do it justice--it is truly cool.
On a side note, I tend to wear this maternity turtleneck quite a bit, don't I? And I look tired. It's time to wear makeup.
For a full recap of the weekend's book events (two held on the very land where Keowee Valley is set), and news about future book travel, click here.
This
morning, I threw caution to the wind. Got in my car—just my dog and me—and headed
for the hills. Played my music LOUD. Left
my life behind.
Goodbye,
cruel world. Hasta la vista. Sayonara. Arrivederci.
Eat
my dust.
Okay,
so I was only headed down the mountain to the vet’s office, so he could remove
stitches from my dog’s ear, but still. It was a moment.
Allow
me to share:
Have
I mentioned that I’m pregnant? Very, very pregnant? And that I have a 3
year-old? A particularly rascally 3 year-old? And a husband who works from
home?
I
do. And it’s GRAND. But this morning, I got hit with the ornery stick. And
everything about all of it—mostly being very pregnant—came to a boiling point. Remember
that scene in whatever Will Smith movie it was where the asteroid hits the
Earth? Like that.
First,
it started with me waking up and realizing that I. was. still. pregnant.
Shocker,
right? And how could I tell? The aching hips, legs, ankles. The ginormous
belly. Oh, and the fun fact that I no longer possess a jaw line.
And
then there was the moment in front of my closet when I realized that since it
was going to be a creepy 60 degrees today, I officially had nothing to wear.
That even my maternity clothes weren’t fitting comfortably. And I had to go
back to my hometown. A place where people actually look presentable on purpose. As I’m standing
there, throwing discarded clothing in a pile on my bed that was beginning to
resemble Jabba the Hut (the monstrous pregnancy pillow that keeps me sane each
night giving it an extra lift), there was some lovely background music.
It
went like this: screaming 3 year-old, refusing to go to the potty. Angry daddy
threatening the screaming 3 year-old. Dog-on-pain-meds-who-can’t-control-her-bladder
barking, for the love of Pete, to be let out of the ever-loving house.
But
back to me. In that mature clothes-flinging moment, I also remembered the fact that
every single person who has asked when I’m due to have this baby guesses
months early. Months. And when I tell them, they’re surprised. Some, mostly
men, have told me outright I look like I’m well into my third trimester.
Like
the lovely young gentleman (all of about 26 years-old) who sidled up next to me
at the Freshens stand in the Atlanta airport a few weeks ago. Our conversation
went like this:
Him:
(looking down at my belly with a smirk. Yes, a smirk.) Having a baby?
Me:
Yep.
Him:
How far along are you?
Me:
About 23 weeks.
Him:
Man, you look more like 30.
Me:
Why, you precocious little s%$#.
Kidding.
But I thought about it. “One of these days, Alice … POW! Right in the kisser!”
So,
back to the ornery stick. It hit me hard this morning. I groaned. And moaned. And pouted.
And scowled. And slammed doors. My husband tried to appease me. Nothing he said
helped. My daughter tried to appease me. That just made me feel guilty. My dog
looked at me with learned wariness, from afar.
Yes,
Mr. Melville. I felt like taking to the sea. Like knocking people’s hats off.
In
the car on the way down the mountain, I fumed. Thankfully, there were no
tourists in front of me, inching down the winding two lane road at 5 miles per hour. (They’ll get
here about April. Grrr.) I vented to my dog. I tried to think of a way out of my
current situation, but really, there's no cure for being 26 weeks pregnant.
I
did this to myself. (My husband helped.) I’m not sure I’m doing it again.
The
only thing that soothed my bitter soul? The sweet, raucous sounds of Brandi
Carlile’s new album, Bear Creek.
Girl’s
got pipes. And songwriting skills to boot. The song on repeat in my car this
morning was “Raise Hell.”
Check
her out singing live on the Craig Ferguson Show:
So,
I’m home now. Calm. (Okay, calmer.) My
dog got her stitches out. My daughter had a good day at preschool. My husband
is still my husband.
But
my temper tantrum of a morning taught me a little something.
It
ain’t pretty, but sometimes—just sometimes—mama needs to raise a little hell.
So, long-time readers here know that I really dig this title. I’ve used it before. But I can’t help it; it’s such a great song sung by the wonderful Gene Autry. Back in the saddle again, back where a friend is a friend….
See? Now it’ll stick in your head. Sorry.
But this is how I feel, after being away from home for the holidays, and then traveling to Puerto Rico for my third residency in the MFA in Writing program at the Vermont College of Fine Arts. (I skipped 12 days in snowy Vermont in lieu of 8 days in sunny–sometimes–Puerto Rico.) Finally home, I have busied myself with completing all the tasks laid out before me for the next few months:
1. Clean my house. There are still Christmas decorations up. 2. Organize my desk. I’d show you a picture, but you’d scream. 3. Write a big ol’ chunk of Novel 2. 4. Continue to share and promote Keowee Valley. 5. Complete my third semester (the critical semester, in which I write a doozy of a critical thesis in addition to producing new creative work) in the MFA in Writing program at the Vermont College of Fine Arts. 6. Mama my 3 year-old. In a good way. (And, dear Lord, finally get her completely potty-trained.) 7. Team up with my husband to prepare our house for Baby Girl 2, set to arrive May 8, 2013. 8. Grow a baby. Yowza.
I’m sure I’m missing something, but I’ll get to that later. Tomorrow….
Okay, enough with the songs.
Later this week, I’ll share my Puerto Rico experience–and some photos–with those interested. One of the many reasons I’d applied to VCFA was because of their study abroad opportunites. (There’s an alternate residency every summer in Slovenia, and an alternate winter one in Puerto Rico.) As an undergrad, I longed to study abroad, and came close to heading to Australia for a semester. Then I decided to tack on a double major and became The Girl Who Reads Alot.
When I did the grad school thing the first time, earning my MA in English, I had the chance to spend a summer in Italy, and it was a life-changer. So I knew this was something I’d like to pursue during my MFA. VCFA makes it easy to attend: the residencies are held at the exact same time, which makes it more manageable for those of us with jobs and families. But more of that later this week.
If you “follow” me on Facebook, you’ll know that one of the founding members of my family–my sweet black lab (and faithful trail partner), Scout–has been through a heck of a week.
Here’s a run-down:
hematoba on the ear surgery head wrapping pulling off wrapping blood more blood visits to the ER vet more wrapping Houdini-style removal of the wrapping (usually while we slept) savings depleted more wrapping less blood meds, meds, and more meds
Thankfully, though, she’s on the mend. And I really appreciate all you fine folks who wrote in to tell me you were thinking about her and us! I believe good juju makes the world go round. May you be blessed with an easy winter. And lollipops (my daughter insists).
That’s all for now! If you’re able, I hope you’ll tune in for my radio interview on the Blog Talk Radio show “Away With Words,” hosted by Victoria Valentine! 7:00 tonight!
Can you tell I love my Writer's Thesarus? It keeps me warm on cold nights.
But back to the topic at hand: It's true, and at 15 weeks along there's no denying it. I am expecting Baby #2--gender yet to be revealed--on May 8, 2013.
Holy freaking moly.
To say that trying to manage all those things in my life I love to talk (or complain... cough) about has been difficult would be a massive understatement. As so many mamas know, working, parenting a young child, taking care of a house (snort), trying to promote a novel and attempting to be a reasonable spouse all take on an entirely new meaning when you are "in the family way."
Add a full graduate course load and attempting to write a second novel, and it's a circus act of massive proportions. Except, in my case, it's not snazzy, fancy Ringling Brothers, but instead one of those state fairs where the carnies running the ferris wheel look like meth-heads, all the animals in the 4-H competitions bolt for the hills, and carnival-goers all seem to look as if they'd sprouted from the same gene pool.
What I'm trying to say is, the past 3+ months have been a doozy. And I've not done anything--parenting, wife-ing, teaching, writing, novel promoting--particularly well.
See, I'm a college English professor who just used the word "wife-ing." I should be shot.
Thankfully, I seem to have moved out of the I-want-to-die-NOW portion of pregnancy, that oh-so-lovely first trimester. (I'm writing that in a whisper, so the nausea gremlins don't get me). With this move into the Lord-be-praised second trimester, I seem to have reclaimed some of my old energy. When I was pregnant with my now 3 year-old, I used this energy to grade papers, to exercise, to hike some pretty big hills.
Somehow, this isn't the case with Number 2. There's more to do.
I don't have the antidote. The magic potion. The solution. If you do, send it to me. Please. Now. Ye shall be rewarded forthwith.
Some day, "they" tell me, I will write about all this. And I'll be calm. I'll be enlightened, helpful, humorous.
But for now, I'm just pregnant. Happily, but maddeningly, "fecund, fertile and fraught."
Writing is like making love, but it's also like having a tooth pulled. [And] sometimes it's like making love while having a tooth pulled. ~ Dean Koontz
Exactly eleven months and two days after I'd given birth to our daughter, my husband and I were arguing. We were growing louder and more immature by the second when out of frustration and self-preservation, my husband took his head briefly in his hands and then shook them at me like a saner version of Kosmo Cramer. "You have got to write!" He shouted.
It had the same effect as a concerned friend begging lowly to an addict, You've got to quit drinking or You've got to get some help. Not writing was making me curt, ornery, and even a bit depressed.
Three years earlier, I'd attended a writing conference in South Carolina with a mere ten pages of an historical novel--the product of an idea that had been brewing in my brain for years. At the end of my sit-down with a reputable editor (formerly with Algonquin Books) he set my pages down on the table between us and looked at me directly. "Have you got more?" He asked.
"No," I answered, embarrassed. "That's it."
"Well, a year from now, when you finish it, you need to start shopping for agents. I think you've got a really publishable work here."
A year and a half later I finished the novel and followed the editor's advice. I did my research, and within six months I was choosing between four literary agents who'd offered to represent me and my fledgling novel. I went with the older agent: a man whose success and longevity in the business I'd admired, and whose name often popped up beneath the word "Producer" in the credits of several blockbuster action films. I didn't expect for my novel to be bought quickly, of course, but I'd been on such a lucky streak with the whole thing--my first novel, several offers of representation, the rarity of it all--that there was a tinny voice in my head whispering It'll happen. You're on a roll.
Six months passed. Then another six months. Then a year. The publisher rejection letters I insisted my agent send me poured in. Despite the occasional compliment, it was the negative that stuck with me: "Not right for my list." "A little old-fashioned." And my personal favorite: "We could've done a great job with this a few years back." Merely the stuff of experience, I told myself. I began new work, tried somewhat unsuccessfully to shore up my confidence, to take strength from the many failed-then-finally-published writers before me. Everyone goes through this, I reasoned.
Then, in the Fall of 2008, I got pregnant... and shortly thereafter lost the power to write. Whatever you want to call it--the creative spark, the Muse, my literary mojo--was simply swallowed up by Baby Brain Freeze. All the supportive comments from my writer friends who were already parents, the "Just think about how much you'll have to write about!" and "Your creativity will blossom!" did nothing to rouse my creative will. Though it was arguably the most important physical and emotional transition of my life, I felt no urge to write about the experience. I pushed aside my literary life and immersed myself in reading and thinking only about baby. Or at least I tried.
So when my husband shouted, I stopped. I didn't even have to take a breath. "You're right, " I told him. And he was--I needed to write like I needed to take my first shower in days or to sit down and eat a proper supper. Not doing so was making me mean.
I began by writing letters to my infant daughter, and no matter how sporadic, it is the act of channeling thought to fingertips, fear and hope and love to the page, that has brought me back from the abyss. Started the thaw. Revved my writer's engine. In doing so, I'm not making any great strides. God knows I'm still a bit paralyzed by the fact that my novel may never get published, that as the mother of a now one year-old, it may be years before I again have the opportunity for totally unencumbered writing time.
Today, my literary agent finally returned an email message I'd sent him over a month ago, and then re-sent two weeks later, just to be sure he'd received it. An apology: He's got several unfinished manuscripts due at the same time. He's having surgery soon, a hip replacement. He'll call me some time next week.
And what will I tell him? That the only writing I've accomplished in the past twenty-one months has been an occasional blog posting, handwritten "thank you" notes for baby shower gifts, and the random-yet-inspired letters to my daughter? Maybe.
Or perhaps I'll tell him that I've written this piece. That I'm coming back. That no matter the life change, the anxiety, the exhaustion--I have got to write.
