Today, I put soap in the bathroom. More specifically, I filled the pump with liquid cleanser, but ignored the toothpaste stains in the sink and the dust between the toilet’s lid and seat. There’s only so much a gal can accomplish in a specified minute.
Blessed to live in a household overrun with teenage girls and teenage boys, I need to choose careful how I spend my time. I can fold laundry or write poetry, cook a fancy soup or complete an essay, sweep the stairs or rescue a space opera’s gelatinous monster from a family lorded over by a chimera. Often, I vet the imaginary creatures and leave the real dust bunnies to breed.
I hadn’t always associated with the role of “Mommy Writer.” In years past, I identified with “Married Professor” and then with “Organic Mama, Married with Kids.” Time spun. The kids grew. The husband lost some hair. My waist thickened. New developments called for new responses. I returned to my first love, to playing with words. In turn, the motes appreciated my attention so much that they introduced me to their friends, to their relatives and to their assistant bank managers.
Fortunately, no matter how hyper-excited I got, no matter how energized I felt, I still could not keep up with my plethora of incomplete works and with my not-yet-birthed-but-scribbled-on-bits of paper, on remnants of napkins, or on other utilitarian, flat surfaces collection of foetal ideas. That productivity has been Loaned to me by The Big Boss and is an attribute for which I am grateful.
Per the mechanics of my writing, my system is mundane; I write, I rewrite, and then I rewrite a lot more. Thereafter, I send my work to peers (writers, editors and publishers) for their comments or I submit my work directly for consideration. In either case, after sending my work around, I often rewrite again and again.
When I am not writing, I am critiquing. I mentor other writers, all of whom I yell at when they become reluctant to engage in even more rewrites, I informally provide feedback to a few writers’ circles, and I formally read slush for a few publications. I also write literary criticisms of genre work for a certain venue.
When I received my first writing paycheck thirty years ago, I told interested parties that writing is as much about reading as it is about creating. Today, I assert that wisdom still holds true.
Lately, I have been enjoying, b’ayin tov, some recognition from my peers. For instance, to my surprise, a few months ago, I was nominated, in the genre of poetry, for The Pushcart Prize. I squeaked a bit, emailed that news to my husband and then returned to the column I was writing for a parenting magazine. That day, I had to finish the parenting essay and I had to complete a rewrite of a science fiction tale for a speculative fiction Ezine. Celebration, per se, can wait for another life time. In this span, what’s important is that I give thanks to The Boss.
Some of my writing gets accepted quickly or even gets solicited before it is written. Others of my pieces get shipped around to half of a dozen places before finding a home. Yet others remain “orphaned.” Reader demographics, gatekeeper psychographics, and space (in print publications) all factor into whether or not any given work gets accepted. If a selection of writing is of questionable quality, then, that factor, too, can cause rejection. Albeit, as a writer who is trying to successfully brand herself, I try to avoid submitting crummy work as I try to avoid a less than positive reputation. In truth, my professional life really does revolve around rewrites.
At times, though, my life focuses on related matters, such as on marketing. In a week or so, with G-d’s Help, my quietly humorous, unabashedly raucous, collection of essays, Oblivious to the Obvious: Wishfully Mindful Parenting, will be available from French Creek Press (for preorders, go to services@frenchcreekpress.com). To wit, I’ve been working on a website, http://www.kjhannahgreenberg.net/, have had my face immortalized by a professional photographer (in compositions featuring props ranging from egg cartons to potted fruit trees), and have compiled an Excel sheet containing contact information about the hundreds of editors who have been kind enough to publish my individual writings. Whereas I like generating stories, poems and essays much more than I like promoting them, I accept that no widget, regardless of its relative merit, sells without a public introduction.
Meanwhile, one of my children is preparing for a school trip abroad, another is considering which type of fellow she wants to marry, a third is strategizing new platforms for her campaign to wear gothic nail polish and a fourth is trying to get me to agree that homework is overrated. As well, my hibernaculum of imaginary hedgehogs is shopping for personal space ships and a magazine from Down Under is waiting for a third installment of my narratives.
In sum, I would no more say that the practice of writing ought to be constrained to a single genre or to a single topic than I would urge emerging writers to neglect rewrites. I would also not say that writing is the most important facet of my life; my family is invaluable, honoring myself, by actualizing my creativity, is essential and our bathroom’s soap pump needs to be refilled at least every alternate Thursday.
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