When Trying to Write a Novel . . .

I am held together with butterfly stitches
Pulling at the seams

Starving, striving, bone tired, ragged

I swallowed a piece of bread and grew two sizes

I awake to the skin peeling from my breasts
My dream of you interrupted by a little boy who is always whining
Ill tempered
I get cruel
I need black coffee

I need the Atlantic air

to climb into a dark cave and pull the covers high up over my eyes

To cover my eyes like it was all a dream
A most beautiful nightmare

I want my old skin back
The skin that didn’t require so much maintenance
The skin I rarely had to think about

My skin
it is getting older
It droops down my face like a sculptor ran his hands over soft clay
Thumb and forefinger
Pulling down down down, from the corners of my mouth
Gravity sculpted me angry and sullen
He pulled hard on my thighs and made my flesh dimple
He played tug of war with my breasts

He laughs

He thinks he’s funny

The sink overflows with dishes
The counter produces more paperwork to ignore
To feel guilty about, always tugging at my brain
Boxes to ship
School paperwork to fill out
Laundry that reproduces like rabbits
Children who need to eat something, anything other than refined carbohydrates
Novels that beg to be written
Words that whisper themselves into my ear when I’m driving, or yelling
When I am always a million miles away from pen and paper
I sprint to find some
I hold it in my hand trembling and ask inwardly “Now, what was that? Please tell me what you said?”

But the bitch keeps silent

She is temperamental

I am enveloped back into the velvety folds of whining, crying, demands and more laundry
I fall backward into it

I pull the dirty covers up over my eyes

For Whom the Bell Tolls: Why I’m Up in Da Club

Lately I don’t want to write.

I feel as if some of the things I’m writing are too personal. I’m supposed to do cathartic writing, let it sit, revisit and revise. But I’m strapped for time. More and more the revision is little to none. That’s right folks, you’ve been reading a few diary entries. Ok, not entirely true. I mean, we all know my diary would be way filthier than anything on this blog. Classy bitch alert, right here folks.

It’s just that lately I’m having to choose between my body and my brain. Do I write today or exercise? And frankly, at this moment in my life sweating it out to dirty rap music feels much more cathartic. I huff it on the treadmill, staring out at the mountains as Missy Elliot chants in my ear, “5’2” and wear my jeans real tight” while Nicki Minaj spits, “All these bitches wanna try and be my bestie, but I take a left and leave ‘em hangin’ like a testi” as Jay Z reminds me “Ladies is pimps too, gon’ brush your shoulders off.”

In my writing I fear repeating myself, repeating themes, and in doing so revealing too much. Like an old man who keeps telling the same three stories over and over. You sit there thinking, “Damn, that really made an impression on him. He’s still talking about this shit.” But that’s the thing, right? It’s not that the story is that important, it’s that he has nothing else going on. He doesn’t have any other stories.

I have other stories, lots of them. Stories I can’t post on the internet.

So I write the other shit. I write about my babies, about motherhood, about marriage, autonomy, the beauty, the everyday drudgery. I write every week and sometimes I feel like a broken record. Sometimes I get sick of my own words. I go back and read my last few posts. I try to make sure I’m not repeating myself. I sit down to write something new. I don’t have the time to fully develop my thoughts. The same old, same old comes out all over again. I close the laptop. I’m done.

But let me tell you, in case you hadn’t picked up on my most recent theme. It’s autonomy.

I should stop here. I shouldn’t keep repeating it. But lately I want to be left alone. The other evening after the kids were in bed I actually heard myself say aloud, “Yeah, I’m kinda over having kids right now.” When my husband brought up having a vasectomy the other day my response was a swift, “Yeah, go ahead and book that shit whenever you’re ready.”

I’ve been scheduling appointments for some, um, (cough cough) cosmetic work (cough cough). I feel old. I feel a different clock ticking. A much louder clock. I look in the mirror and feel like I’ve got a good ten maybe fifteen years of “youth” left.

I’m trying to seize the mother fucking day.

I’m saying weird shit to my husband while he drinks his morning coffee like, “So, we gonna hit the club this weekend when we go out with your friends, right?”

“I hope not,” he says, “you know I hate that shit.”

“Cool, you can go home after dinner and we gonna go get krunk in the club.”

He thinks I’m joking.

I’m dead serious.


If you’re reading this and you’re older you’ll tell me I’m too young to feel my mortality. That’s the way it always is. We always look back and say we were so young. Maybe you’re my age and you still feel young. Good for you, but you’re not me. You haven’t lived my life. Maybe you haven’t experienced death in the same way I have. How it comes in like a thief in the night, and your security system won’t save you. You’re not special, and you’re not immune. We’re all going to die and I’m at peace with that. What I’m not at peace with is getting old.

There I said it.

So I’m going to do what brings me some sanity and right now that’s a physical catharsis. I start another writing workshop soon. I’ll be writing a novel over the next six weeks. So don’t be shocked if this blog sits stagnant for a bit.

But I’ll be back with a smoother face and a firmer ass. For now, just remember this, Yoko Ono went clubbing until 3:00am on her seventieth birthday.

We should all aspire to be Mother. Fucking. Yoko. Ono.

Rage rage against the dying of the light, and all that shit.

I think that’s how it goes.