When I think of writing and motherhood, I think of women wringing out ounces of creativity in the middle of the night the way literary agent Carly Watters recently described; I imagine Glennon Doyle typing away in her closet at 4:30 am; I picture poet and Instagram sensation Kate Baer in her minivan, filling her computer with thoughts. There is a brutal efficiency to capturing creative energy while raising small children. (At this moment, I am sitting at a restaurant's bar near the kids' school making the most of a half-hour between parent-teacher conferences.) We are not actually machines, though, capable of performing perpetually at the drop of a hat; we are full of the inefficiencies of life, and there are nights when no one sleeps, people are sick, schedules are packed with extracurriculars and school events—the work simply can't happen. And then there are times when we are "butt in chair" so to speak, but again the work can't happen—this is because harnessing creativity isn't just about fashioning shallow pockets of time in which to produce. As author Kathleen Donohoe said of writers, "even more than hours and minutes, you need passion and energy to do the work."
In a recent interview with The Atlantic's Nicole Chung, author Lydia Kiesling spoke about how she fled from her every day family life to work on her latest novel: "I told my husband, 'I'm sorry, I've gotta go,' found an $80-a-night cabin 40 minutes away, and went there for three nights." This method helped Kiesling act on a feeling of urgency about her work, particularly if she could convince herself that writing was "some kind of escape or vacation" from her domestic obligations. She said she became a "complete monster" in her cabin, eating "weird pre-packaged sandwiches," watching her "terrible shows" when she needed a break, and working when she wanted to. But Kiesling doesn't sound like a monster to me: she sounds like a person exercising her autonomy—she eats what she wants, watches what she wants, and works in a time that suits her. She sounds like me before I had kids.
Raising children necessarily infringes on autonomy—how else would kids survive if parents just did what they wanted to do at all times? Carly Watters captured this truth in the context of motherhood and creativity: "Looking beyond the many, many gifts, motherhood's biggest crime is stealing a person's ability to tend to their own needs in the moment." A top partner at a law firm once admitted to a meeting of mother-lawyers I'd attended that he could have done more with his career had he and his wife chosen not to have three children. This is laughable given how much he actually achieved despite all the kids and that he most likely enjoyed greater latitude to focus on his career than his wife. But he was trying to voice his empathy for the fact that children can be a limiting factor on ambitions.
In navigating the resource-rich requirements of childrearing, parents devise work-arounds to feed creativity that manifest as "carving out time" anywhere we can, like the early morning hours in the relative quiet of the closet and inside the car for the length of a tennis lesson. (As of this paragraph, I am in the passenger seat of our car traveling home from family vacation, pausing every so often to field requests for gum and rescue of the Tamagotchi that keeps falling behind my seat.) These efforts to patch together anemic servings of time deserve respect and recognition, but I know at least for me, they don't solve the problem of the passion and energy to do the work. They don't grant reprieve from the emotional and mental taxes of parenthood.
Author Miranda Beverly-Whittemore's mother went on a three-week writing retreat decades ago, something Beverly-Whittemore disapproved of at the time. As an adult, the author reconsidered, finding that her mother's prioritization of her creative needs "by stepping away from our home and my father and the care of me so that she could take long, rainy walks by herself, and make her art, will always be a much more important, vital, necessary lesson, than anything I lost." Kathleen Donohoe described leaving her son on weekend mornings to work on her novel at a rented desk at the Brooklyn Writers Space: "I told him I was going writing. He repeated it back: Going to Writing, as if it were a place, and maybe it was to him." I've thought about prioritizing writing like this and once came close with a few weeks of increased sitter hours that often resulted in me doing more laundry. What holds me back? My husband is a very active parent, but I've definitely assumed the role of primary caregiver: the very thought of making sure the institutional knowledge of our children is appropriately transferred to another adult for 48 hours is overwhelming. Not to mention I know how all-consuming days alone with three kids can be, and I feel guilty for the amount of work involved for the responsible party.
The thing is, no one else will care about my writing the way I do, and I'd be in good company following Carly Watters' advice: "Women must honor their creative desires with the same urgency they want to deliver their children with safety." If I'm being honest, part of me thinks it's selfish to elevate non-paying, creative work over my family, even if just for a weekend. I don't know where this comes from, but it crosses my mind when I see my peers check in to cabins or retreats on Instagram. And of course, I'm envious: I want to feel that free of judgement. I want to eat what I want, watch what I want, and work in a way that suits me. Some days I want to be a "complete monster" like Lydia Kiesling. Perhaps this shrugging off the mantel of mother to assume the role of monster is how to get the work done.
[Books]
I'm still making my way through Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner. I don't know if it's her frank approach to describing her grief or something else, but I need time to digest her words:
"If I'm being honest there's a lot of anger. I'm angry at this old Korean woman I don't know, that she gets to live and my mother does not, like somehow this stranger's survival is at all related to my loss. That someone my mother's age could still have a mother. Why is she here slurping up spicy jjamppong noodles and my mom isn't? Other people must feel this way. Life is unfair, and sometimes it helps to irrationally blame someone for it.
Sometimes my grief feels as though I've been left alone in a room with no doors. Every time I remember my mother is dead, it feels lie I'm colliding with a wall that won't give."
I think I identify with Zauner's words more than I care to admit. Mortality, man. Here is her original essay that appeared in The New Yorker.
[Essays & Articles]
I adored Kathryn Jezer-Morton's piece on giving dirty houses their due. Have you checked out The Drift? Start with this piece on Ted talks from their latest issue. Chloe Benjamin's honest assessment of her ambition and health and the downside of "just pushing through" is refreshing.
[something new]
We had yet another four-day weekend and made the most of it by going to Beech Mountain. It was over 50 degrees at the ski resort and I was legitimately nervous the granular slush would melt as we made our way downhill. As one man in the chair lift line said, "Lake Louise this is not." But we all had fun. We even managed to get the older girls into ski school, which was such a strong move. Although I had my doubts about Chandler the ski instructor who could be heard begging the several children in his charge to please stop asking so many questions, both my older girls were able to ski down green circles by the end of the day. Thank you, Chandler!