Sanctuary

If Andrea from About 100% asked me to hike part of the Appalachian Trail, I'd price hiking boots.  If she suddenly showed up at my house in a rental, a feathered boa, and a flimsy reason why, I'd drive us both to Vegas.  Actually, I would probably head to Nashville and tell her I'm horrible with directions. Since she has recently asked me to take part in a blog tour about our writing process, I'm all in.

What's a blog tour?  Not sure exactly.  But I do know what a writing process is because I spent 9,4245139587103758 hours in writing classes while lamenting about what I wanted to do with my life.  That's like eating twenty stuffed olives while rooting through the fridge for what you might like for a snack.  One Psychology then Journalism then Philosophy then Veterinary Medicine then Gerontology major later and I'm standing with weepy eyes before a Career Counselor the last semester of my senior year.  All the while, eating stuffed olives.

So, here's a failed psychologist/journalist/philosopher/veterinary student's take on writing.

1) What am I working on?

Foremost, a writing schedule. There are stories my kids ask me to tell them all the time ("Please, the one about Uncle Eric and you chasing him with your hairbrush!  The one about your dog getting stuck in the sewer at Thanksgiving!) that I want to compile in one spot for them.  I'm holding my feet to the fire until I finish that in the fall.  Another writing project I'm working on is sorting through all my old poetry from the 90s and seeing what can be shaped into what two decades later.  What's most interesting about those old writings isn't my sappy perspective or nostalgic heart. Tiger stripes, those are.  What's most interesting are the doodles.  There is something so therapeutic about those sketches.  Like silent flares and tiny explosions of encouragement from the sidelines.  Keep going, they say.  We're here to help, they promise.  Whose days couldn't use more suns bursting through the lines or curling gardens of teardrops in their margins?

2) How does my writing differ from others in its genre?
I might be one of the few who writes a blog but doesn't consider herself a blogger.  Through the years, I've learned that bloggers network, comment on each other's work regularly, and attend functions with other bloggers to grow and develop.  I tried for a while and spent most of that time hiding in a deli with a spoon in my mouth.  For that reason, my writing differs because I'm comfortable with or without an audience.  My audience here is an intimate group of intelligent friends (some I've never met) who come here to visit, nothing more.  They're not looking for advice or guidance.  They're not here for a revolution.  Neither am I.  Any time someone leaves a comment or sends an email, it's like we ran into a cafe from out of the rain, sharing an umbrella.  Unexpected fun.  A welcome surprise.

While I do appreciate readers, I write for myself as a rule.  For a later time when I can pore over the details of this busy life as a mom who knew she was missing the point sometimes.  For a later time when I want to remember who my children were before pessimism and teenage swag.  For a later time when I might not remember things so clearly and it begins to bother me.  When you write for yourself, realism and romance are your sanctuary while details and specifics become your stained glass.

3) Why do I write what I do?
Oops.  Got ahead of myself and already answered this question in number 2.  I do make a concentrated effort not to confuse my stories with anyone else's.  When starting this blog, I vowed not to write about anyone else's experience but mine- thus the name, One-Sided Momma.  It's becoming a fine line for my kids as they get older.  My comfort level with sharing them has changed since starting this blog.  I'm going with this recent evolution and feel happy to embark on a new path.  Fewer mommy stories and more about a lady trying to live her own personal truths - personal, professional, and sometimes spiritual.  Of course, this will necessitate a new blog name soon, I think.  Any suggestions?  

4) How does my writing process work?
Man, this question makes me feel like I forgot to study.  My writing process doesn't exist.  Or maybe it does but it's in my head.  Typically, a post is written in my head while I shower, mow the lawn, untangle my dogs on a walk, marry socks, or drive home in a quiet minivan.  Then, if there aren't any other pressing priorities, I jump on my husband's computer, twist my legs into an anxious uni-limb and type frantically until I feel an exhale coming on.  Every period is an exhale.  Every comma is an invitation for me to rewrite the sentence. I'm a huge comma splicing maniac.  Always trying to better the structure but forever leaning on old bad habits.

One thing my favorite English prof taught me was to learn all the rules first, follow them well for a very long time, then dance.  I probably dance too much.

Thank you for the visit.  It's always a pleasure sharing an umbrella with you.

My Uncle, an Artist

I found it in a three-ring binder.  A penciled sketch of two hands with a short cluster of words to the right.

The title was simple:  Hands.

I was only ten but taking in those words opened up a new world for me.  Jimmy had written a poem of the relationship between his father's aging hands and his own journey of becoming a man.  Every line held a decade, every word meant the moon, every syllable flowed like wine.

My uncle, an artist.  

For years, I would sneak downstairs to his bachelor pad of crumpled bedsheets and crates of old magazines to snoop for more binders of his words.  I wanted to drink them up.  His words sometimes scrawled up the side of the page, like a boy daydreaming in geometry class.  Each page held pictures: sketches of faces, profiles of beautiful women, caricatures of children, sometimes a cat napping in the sun.

My uncle, an artist.

My trespassing went on for many years and crossed boundaries.  Sometimes I'd even sneak into his closet to wear one of his sweaters as a dress.  His scarves weren't even safe.  I wanted to wear what he wore because...

My uncle, an artist. 

The day I graduated from high school, he took off work early, got lost in DC and wound up spending two hours circling the exact building I was graduating in, not realizing he was in the right spot all along.  I met him in the parking lot outside afterward.  He was crushed to have missed the whole thing.  I was thrilled he showed up at all.


My uncle, an artist.

When Jimmy brought his entire family to meet my first born, he told me Grayson has been here before.


My uncle, an artist.

When we chatted on the phone about Pentenville, dogs, and heaven, he said animals are the only ones who can cut through the b.s. of being human and imprint their souls to ours with pure and flawless love.

My uncle, an artist.

When I hear Brendan playing his guitar, learn of Haley's gift with words, and witness Leah's nurturing soul, I am in the presence of his legacy, his gifts.

Jimmy is an irreplaceable spirit, an undeniable force of generous emotion, and a person we all fell in love with a lifetime ago, 23 years ago or last week.

His voice we can't forget, his "voices" compel us to cry laughing or now...just cry, and the love he gave each of us is living inside all who had the great fortune of sharing space with him.

My uncle, the artist.