The Big Questions

It's an unusual thing to have four children span from adulthood down to Pirate Boy. Each of the four of them was raised when my my life was different, my health was different, my religion was different, my worldview was different. It's as if they have each had a different mother because their ages are so disparate. I have changed with each of them. That is the way of life and motherhood.

Pirate Boy is at the BIG question stage. I consider myself an optimistic person, content . . . in love with motherhood (mostly), and life (mostly). But I find my worldview has changed--and is still changing. So the "certainhood" that I might like to answer with as a parent is less so right now. I don't know that I have the answer to his BIG questions. But he seems content with my long-winded and not-so-sure answers.

Two days ago in the car (why does he always have BIG questions in the car?). "Mom, how come we don't go to church anymore?" (He hasn't been in a year and a half.)

"Do you WANT to go to church?" (Way to dodge the question, Erica.)

"Yeah. So how come we don't?'

"Mommy doesn't believe in organized religion." (Will that satisfy him? Um . . . no.)

"Why not?"

"Well, remember how we used to go to a happy church? Eventually it was ruined by in-fighting, unkindness, and hypocrisy. And I think it's hard to sustain goodness for too long in this world. Maybe it's the way certain people are wired."

"Well, can't you find a church that IS a happy place?"

"Is it important to you?"

"Yes."

"Is it because you like the cookies there? Or what?"

"I just like it."

Well, crap. "In my heart of hearts, I don't know that I can do that, even for you. Which says a lot about how hard that would be for me. But let me think about it. I would rather see you put your faith in the God of YOUR understanding than in people."

See what I mean? Big questions. Or his frequent . . .

"When will you die?"

"I don't know."

"Soon?"

"I hope not."

"Where will you go when you die?"

"I want to be cremated."

"What's that?"

"I don't want to be buried. I would rather have my ashes scattered at sea."

"Yeah, but after that? Heaven?"

What do I say? "If there is one, I like to think that I will be watching over you forever. Because I love you that much. I love you so much it feels like my heart expands and then breaks in two when I think of you. And that kind of love is something that survives even death."

Big questions. I thought that last answer was rather clever. Avoids it while appearing as if I am ACTUALLY answering him.

So then it was bedtime and he wanted the Itsy-Bitsy Spider book. He looks up at me and asks, "Is this a true story or a work of fiction?" (Swear he asked that--as with all his conversations I recount here or on Facebook, I'm just his transcriber.)

And that got me thinking.

We're all on this quest for answers to our big questions, and something about certain books unites us with other people looking for the same thing. I mean, there are beach reads and escapism. And that's terrific. But there are those pieces of fiction that somehow don't answer the big questions but perhaps let us feel less lonely for asking them. I still will never forget weeping over The Joy Luck Club. All right, MAYBE it was because I was 9 months + one week pregnant with my now six-foot-two son, and MAYBE my hormones were all over the place. And MAYBE I just wanted to go into labor and deliver my nearly nine-pound-baby. But if ever there was a book about motherhood and what it means--the sacrifice, the hopes and dreams of it all, the complexity of it, it is that book. For me. And since it was a massive best-seller, I think it was one of those works of fiction that transcends just my singular reading into a shared experience.

So as I choose books for Pirate Boy, I find myself wondering. What do I have to share with him? What do the books I choose for us to share mean? BEYOND Itsy-Bitsy Spider.

I suppose this is why I think books are important. Even if, like me, they don't have the answers to the BIG questions, they are a reminder that we are all asking them. I think back to my childhood books. Little Women. Jo's Boys. I think to the middle grade and YA fiction that somehow TRANSCENDED my reading them alone into something bigger. It is like, even today, when I find someone who has read and loved a book I have read and loved. There is that moment of excitement--we have SHARED something--even if we never knew it at the time.

Thoughts? What books have had the most meaning to you? Which ones have you SPECIALLY chosen to share with your children?

Life is Dukkha

Roll in the end-of-year blogs . . . and then the New Year's resolutions blogs. It seems to be what we humans do at year's end or birthdays, after tragedies, or at times of change. We assess the old and look to the new.

For me, this year can by summarized by Life is Dukkha. Most people translate the Buddhist term to Life is Suffering, but that really seems to muddle things, because it can appear as if Buddhists are a pessimistic lot. Dukkha is much more. There is no single English word to translate it. Life is . . . suffering. But it is also happiness. It is impermanence. Get used to it flowing smoothly, and you will find sharp rocks in the river on which to snag your boat. To LONG for anything more than the turbulence is to find yourself miserable. So it becomes about acceptance.

"Acceptance," like trying to understand Dukkha, seems to also have a negative connotation to some (particularly Westerners). We are strivers and achievers. We don't accept, we . . . knock things over and overcome and try to make things better. I've written 20+ novels while simultaneously raising four children . . . I don't sit around "accepting" much of anything. I roll my sleeves up, most of the time, and get on with getting on. But underneath it all is the constant mantra in my mind. "It is what it is."

For in the most painful portions of my life, the times filled with grief or great pain, it's the conclusion I always reach. Life is Dukkha. It changes. It is what it is.

This year brought with it mostly . . . bad. I've lost friends, saw people I once respected fall into hypocrisy, I saw the worst of what petty people can dish out. I struggled with my health. Pain has become a constant companion. Life is Dukkha.

In between . . . I laughed. I cried. I published another book. My parents decided to move in with me. I closed off and became more inward. I kissed my darling little pirate, and I read bedtime stories. The Pirate and I discovered the magic of worms in the garden, and I saw my other kids blossom in their own ways. I went without sleep, I slept too much, I wondered what life meant, and I realized I had no sure answers.

Life is Dukkha. And I expect 2011 to be no different. My parents will move in permanently with their stuff, I will say good-bye to some of my stuff to make room for their stuff. It's just stuff. Life. Dukkha. I believe there are a thousand lessons I do not know now, but will learn this year. I spent Christmas this year calling an ambulance for my father and taking him to the hospital. Spending Christmas in the ER is surreal. You think. You pray. Only this year, as things have gone, I no longer pray. Whoever God was to me . . . we're estranged right now. So I just think. And I go inner still more. And I accept.

Life is Dukkha. Good and bad. Up and down. It simply is. And that . . . is what little wisdom I have to close out the year.

Love to all,
Me

Life As We Know It

Life as I know it . . . I would say is . . . insane (it also contains a lot of ellipses). Full of ups and downs. Life as I know it lately has generally been pain-filled, but I've also been down that road before. I've been up since 3:00 a.m. because of it . . . and so I'll be toast by noon, but then again, I get to sit and wait for dawn in a quiet house with no one calling out, "Mom, mom, mom, MOM, Mom . . .MOM!!!!!!!"

Life as I know it is chaotic. Filled with too many children (can you have too many of them?), too many bills, and not enough money, usually. Filled with appointments and band practice, and a little wild man whose new "thing" is wearing the SAME flannel shirt every day (telling me to NEVER wash it), but bottomless, because that's how he rolls in winter. Or hangs in winter, I suppose would be more accurate.

Life as I know it . . . it makes me cry on occasion. But at least once a day, if I am lucky, I have a moment when I think, "The Universe sure is good to me." I had one of those moments on Saturday driving in my car, with the fall foliage in full glory, a shining sun, an open car window, the Cure on my radio, and it just hit me. God, I am lucky. I have amazing kids, and I am alive, and I can see and smell fall, and . . . I can make up stories for a living. And I have awesome friends . . . and you know what more can you ask for?

Life as I know it is under construction. My parents arrive at 3:30 for a long stay. Long. Really long. The plan right now is permanently. So I look around and it's kind of freaking me out. I have a beige-ish cat who likes to sleep on the staircase or the landing. I have a blind father. I have beige carpeting. Do the math, blog readers. Do the math. I am planning on instituting a "Call me when you have to come downstairs" rule so I can be sure the cat isn't there. But life as I know it is about to change.

You see, now that Dynamo Boy is in school, the hours from 8 to 3:10 (precisely!) were quiet. But my dad likes to chat with me when he is here, and he usually sits right over THERE, next to my office, on the couch and . . . well, chats. So . . . I learn to write with little interruptions.

Life as I know it . . . is always changing. I guess that's why they call it life. For today, I am grateful I have a lot of love in the life that I know. And that I am writer. And I am loving my work in progress (today, at least). And that I'm here, precisely where I am.

So what about you?

Bizarro Erica

Yeah.

I'm alive.

I have had to remind myself that this really IS the career I want the past week or so. It started with agreeing to do the James River Writers Conference. It was a ball, and I loved my panels. I got to sit on a panel with her, as well as her. I met poets. I ate salsa. I drank margaritas. I raced back and forth twice a day from the city to my house to feed my kids, walk dogs, and generally try to fulfill my role as Mom--as well as being that author-lady. Really, it's like Bizarro Erica. Those two worlds--author and Mom--really are NOT destined to meet.

My freelance life, which generally paces along as a sideshow to my writing life, instead exploded about two months ago with more work than a human being can handle. This is a good thing, as there are braces to come this winter, my van needs tires, and all the rest of that Mom stuff. As well as the perpectually leaky roof.

AND THEN, I got my rewrite notes to my next TWO releases (Magickeepers III from Jabberwocky, and Illuminated from Penguin) due . . . wait for it . . . within seven days of each other--and that was WITH begging for time on my deadlines. Again . . . Bizarro World. Those two deadlines should never have intersected like that.

Add the usual crap (health stuff), the unusual stuff (had my best friend visit for a week), and the insane stuff (it is T-minus 30 days and COUNTING until my parents arrive for--wait for it--a couple of MONTHS . . . not weeks. Months.). My oldest daughter moved out to her own apartment. I need to order new bedroom furniture so my parents have someplace to SLEEP when they come (oldest took her bed and dresser). And you have a recipe for insanity, people.

But I'm back. And so my question is this . . . .

What two worlds should not collide in your universe? And just how many plates can I spin?

Note to Younger Writer Self

Oh, life is a journey. I get that. I basically wouldn't trade my life experiences since they got me to where I am now. But in a purely hypothetical sense, there are a few writing lessons I might have imparted to the Younger Me at different stages in my life. Here are some:

1. Write a million words.
2. Write a hundred short stories and master that, but don't be afraid of the novel. There are some writing lessons you just have to learn by writing one, including pacing.
3. Don't think about publishing. Wait until you've done 1 and then 2, THEN worry about it.
4. You are going to waste a few years when you had NO kids and all the time in the world . . . why weren't you writing so much then when you didn't have so many pressures? Kid, partying in Manhattan is fun, but you know . . . write a little more.
5. Despite what I am telling you in #3, learn what you can about the industry.
6. All this crap you're going through and are going to go through? You'll end up using it for your novels.
7. That crappy romance you tried to write and quit on page 81? It was because you never really had your heart into writing it. Only write what you are passionate about.
8. Drink less coffee. It's gonna be an issue in your life someday. Your family will refer to it as your Life Juice.
9. You think you have the mothering thing down when you have one kid. Wait until #4. Try writing with FOUR kids, Orloff. Oh . . . you have NO idea.
   
10. Never, ever, ever feel guilty for indulging this writing bug you have. Someday you really will earn a living at it. Guilt is a wasted emotion.
11. This has nothing to do with writing, but chances are no matter when I am encountering you on your lifeline, whatever guy you are with? Move on.
    

So there you go. Have any writing lessons you want to tell yourself? Life lessons?

What a Long, Strange Trip It's Been

I was reading a magazine on the plane. Some trashy magazine I wouldn't ordinarily buy left by my seat's previous occupant. They asked some celebrity guy where he would be in ten years. Ordinarily, I wouldn't care what some actor or actress thinks, but it happened to be HIM. And he's that damn good-looking, so I read it. And his quote was something absurdist that I can't really recall because I am so exhausted from travel. BUT . . . the gist of it is who the hell knows, and that's what's so great about life. It's all an unknown.

I have been visiting my parents. My father is blind, and he doesn't have an easy time of things. Everything is hard when you are blind--particularly if you weren't BORN blind and only BECAME blind as an 74 year old man. A lot to get used to. And consequently, my mom doesn't have an easy time of things.

And to make a LONG story short, I am trying to get them to sell their house (yes, in THIS economy) and move near me so I can help caretake. And there were moments, as I ran after Demon Baby in their house, trying to keep him from leaving things on the floor that would trip my dad, where I thought . . . how did I get here? As in this video.

And when I think about it even more . . . I would not ever have pictured my life. Not being a writer--a working writer, a writer who actually publishes books. Not a mom of 4. (MAYBE two or three. Most definitely no Demon Baby in sight.) Not caring for my father, not him being blind. Not the books and adventures I've had--those horrible lows when I wonder . . . what the hell was I THINKING becoming a writer and then those amazing highs (Agent calling: "We have an offer.")

I'm not sure how I got here. Sometimes I think sheer force of will. Sometimes luck. Sometimes hard work. Sometimes persistance. Sometimes duty and compassion. Sometimes the fates.

How did I get here?

So tell me . . . when you survey your somewhat grown-up life . . . how did you get here, oh writers?