My first child was overdue, and a c-section. her conception was an act of joy, a miracle that combined two sets of genes in love. Once conceived she grew on her own. All I needed to do was eat.
My first book a mixture of events written on many pages did not write itself, in fact, it took 20 years of writing and re-writing, but sometimes it flowed from my mind like nature intended it. Writing in the flow with the help of friends and mentors led me the wait for the proof to arrive from the printer.
It arrived in UPS envelope bulging at the sides. My grandson brought it up to me and started to waddle away in his diapers. I went after him, “I can’t open this by myself, could you help me please.”
Being just three; he couldn’t help much, but I was too scared to go into labor with no one around. . My grandson, Mac brought it up to me and started to waddle away in his diapers. I went after him, “I can’t open this by myself, can you help me please?”
Being just three; he couldn’t do much, but I was too scared to go into labor with no one around. I imagined a small-sized paperback book buried in tons of bubble wrap
He helped me hold the package and carefully push a large book out of just one layer of bubble wrap. Through the plastic air bubbles, I saw my favorite image from mother’s painting.
“It’s real,” I gasped, so much prettier than I’d imagined. I cradled it to my bosom like it was a living breathing baby. Climbing the stairs to my room my eyes filled up with tears. I sat on my bed reading it. I became so immersed in the story I forgot I was the author. It captured the essence of Sheila, my deceased mother, perfectly.
But now I’m pregnant again, a story swirling in my head demanding it come out in the light. This story is about me, more personal and much harder to write than writing about someone else, even my mother. I came to the retreat at The Clearing Folk School in Door County with chapters carefully written out but realized they weren’t the story spinning in my mind. Judy Bridges my instructor put her magic stethoscope on my brain and put the earphones in my ears. I heard the book screaming inside me, “Write, write. Shut up and write, Mommy.” The pictures flowed into words, falling on the page. Sure they still need to be rewritten, but they show the story that wants to come out.