I'm Not a Sensible Woman

I've been thinking a lot about identity lately. Whenever I attend a party, chances are at SOME point I will be introduced to someone I don't know . . . and if we are conversing, and I say something like, "When I was doing x or y during the week--I work from home--this happened." And at the work-from-home prompt (I never offer that I am a novelist), perhaps, or some other cue, the new acquaintance will say, "Oh! You're the WRITER!"

I usually smile and nod. I generally try to run.

Sometimes, I can't. And lately, it seems like I am recognized in public a little more often. HENCE, and I KID YOU NOT, a nurse sticking EKG lines on my naked chest and moving my left breast said, "You know, I've read Diary of a Blues Goddess."

My cardiologist will discuss books with me--my chest isn't naked, but face it, the stethescope goes somewhere. So . . . I go through life as a mom. A house frau [my fave Urban Dictionary descibes that as a "disgruntled housewife"--I'm SO there]. A volunteer. A reader. A knitter. A WRITER, I guess.

So . . . do I NEED to be known as the writer? I have this blog. But you are all little pictures to me. :-) Pictures I love, but pictures nonetheless. You are not seeing me covered in mud, wrestling worms with Demon Baby in my garden.

I am reminded of The Little Prince for the thousandth time. The boa contrictor who swallowed the elephant. The child of COURSE sees the boa. Adults . . . they see a hat. If you don't recall it . . . here it is [one of them refers to adults, and the Drawing is the boa constictor who swallowed the elephant, drawn when the now-adult narrator was a child]:

Whenever I met one of them who seemed to me at all clear-sighted, I tried the experiment of showing him my Drawing Number One, which I have always kept. I would try to find out, so, if this was a person of true understanding. But, whoever it was, he, or she, would always say:
"That is a hat."

Then I would never talk to that person about boa constrictors, or primeval forests, or stars. I would bring myself down to his level. I would talk to him about bridge, and golf, and politics, and neckties. And the grown-up would be greatly pleased to have met such a sensible man.


Why are labels and identity important? I think of myself as a big ball of ME. I'm not sure when I "owned" being a writer. Perhaps because I worked as a book editor, I was comfortable in that word. I don't know. But I don't know that I need to tell grown-ups what it is I do.

In the end, I don't know that it is important to me. My label. I am not a sensible woman.

Thoughts?

I Knew It Was Coming . . .

. . . but I still cried.

For Christmas, my best friend Pammie bought me an anniversary-edition hardcover of The Little Prince. It is probably in that small handful of books that I adore--my "favoritest." After I got it, I kept it under the tree. I didn't even take it out of the cellophane. Then, finally, I did. And I curled up on a cold night and re-read it. I thought it would be a good way to start the new year.

As I started, I held my breath. It's been a while since I read it. I pull quotes from the author all the time--single lines I adore--off the Internet. But reading it as an adult in one sitting . . . it's been a while. I wondered, "What if I've built it up too much? What if it's NOT as wonderful and magical as I think it is in my mind?"

I needn't have worried. Since the first few times I read it, I have learned more about the author's almost mythical life, about his relationship with his real-life "rose," his wife. That only added a layer to this reading. I know mroe about his love of aviation. Of flight. Of his real-life stranding in the desert and heroic three-day journey out. So I read.

And I knew it was coming. The ending. I knew it as soon as I saw the Little Prince on the wall talking to the snake. As soon as his knees buckled in fear. As soon as the pilot swears he will not leave the Little Prince. And still . . . I sobbed. I mean, tears just flowing down my face.

And so I wonder, what is it about certain "classics" or certain books. Not the overtly manipulative ones. The ones that leave some indelible impression on your heart. I think, for me, it's this writer's simplicity in his fable, that it IS a fable . . . and the illustrations. And the message. But I can't separate any one thing. It all works to the whole.

I suppose, as a spiritual person, what it says about death is really what speaks to me the most. And I am enchanted by the whole child aspect. But I know it's more than that, too.

So tell me . . . what book does this for you? And do you know why?

Before & After

Life as I know it has changed. Baby #4 has learned to climb out of the crib at will. I will think I have him settled down for the night and can FINALLY write. And voila! There he is, peeking his head around the corner.

Yeah. There is life BEFORE he learned to do this.

And life AFTER.

And, I will say, my other three kids were a LOT . . . less . . . wild. So not only is he out of the crib, but he is likely finding his sister's drumsticks and trying to break the glass coffee table by "playing" it; raiding the dog food and flinging puppy chow from end to end in the kitchen; or otherwise causing mischief.

But life is like that. There was life before I gave birth. And life after. And the difference has less to do with stretch marks and more to do with an immense outpouring of love like nothing I had ever experienced before. Then I did it three more times, each showing me that love is boundless and eternal and can grow beyond what you thought was possible.

And there are books I feel that way about.

There is life BEFORE I read The Little Prince . . . and life after. Life before I read The Sun Also Rises and life after.

So . . . before and after? Seminal event? Book? What reading experience changed you forever?