Mommy Shock

Last night I went to my first writing group with John Rechy. As some of you may recall from an earlier blog, I forced myself to submit first. My work was critiqued second for the night.

When I was there I realized it had been about nine years ago since I went last. He is older, and a little wackier. Though, when he waded into the writing he was just as brilliant, spot-on and inspired as he was nine years ago.

A lot has happened in my life since then. I got married. I had two children (when I told him that he looked shocked, but said nothing.) I quit my job. And I have done a million things that are fascinating, life-enriching, and have nothing at all to do with writing. At that time my whole life was writing. Really, whatever the quality, that was all I did. Fiction was just one more type.

So I returned.

And I was humbled.

The group went around and gave their comments. They were both kind, and pointed. That is what he allows. Only he gets to do the all out critique, and he is careful to balance the harshness with encouragement.

One woman got so rabid that when he tried to shut her down he failed. She could not reign herself in, about one section that drove her crazy because of my confused point of view. In the moment I felt like laughing. Now I feel like crying.

I left the evening stirred up, overwhelmed, my mind on fire, my body exhausted, my stomach in a knot.

I kept trying to figure out what it was that left my mind pinging in a million different directions. There are many things. But I think one was that fo the first time in three years my writing was being taken really seriously, edited seriously, at a very very high level. And it did not hold up. Or, at least there is much, much to be done.

It is not that I can no longer write. No. I believe I will always be a writer.

But if writing is like a discipline, like swimming, track, training for a marathon, I have gone from being an Olympic athlete, writing daily and hard at the paper, being questioned constantly, edited constantly, challenged constantly, to a fat couch potato. Sure, I tell myself, I am still a writer. I write this blog. I write freelance articles when I can. I wrote a novel in a month.

But all of this is solitary. It is being held to no standard, no editing, no outside eye. It keeps me writing, yes, but there is no discipline to it, no one pushing me, challenging me. And I have slipped. I have gotten lazy. Slipped into cliche. I dash things off without really taking the time to slow down and figure out exactly what I want to say, in an original, unique, careful way.

My outdated version of myself as a writer was punctured.

It did not feel good. I had to look at my prose, my sloppiness, my inattention to certain details, and it was not a fun experience. I felt flabby, out of shape, like I had slipped.

I experienced Mommy Shock.

And part of me wanted to run and hide. To say Well, I must take care of my children. I have done so much. To justify my bad writing, my lack of attention. But that is a cop-out. And this is a turning point. Will I look head on at my writing, however shoddy, and learn from the master, and incorporate these lessons without ego, and work, with discipline, to get myself back on the Olympic team?

Or will I hide in my home, scared, and continue to write for no one but myself and a few friends, with an occasional freelance article to show for myself.

I know I am still a good writer. But last night I was faced with the question--now that I am venturing out of my safe, unassailable Mommy lair where no one really evaluates me--do I have the cojones, the discipline, the courage to do what it takes? To join the Olympic writing team again?

Or do I want to hide in my home, behind the excuse of children, and remember my outdated version of myself as a great writer, while my skills, my writing muscles, my tools and discipline atrophy?

I want to write.