Rough Drafts

Pages and pages of colorful construction paper covered my small square desk. My hands worked the scissors through the paper as I contemplated my cover art.

"Can I use your stapler?" I had asked my teacher.

"Tape?"

"Glue?"

My requests were met with her sweet tea-stained smile and a nod.

She got me. At one time, she probably was me.

While all the other children sat hunched-back at their desks, composing their stories, I was done.

I had crafted what I knew to be a Pulitzer Prize winning piece of epic proportions--which was why I was getting a jump start and working on my cover art.

And no, cover art design was not part of the assignment. But, I was clearly an overachiever. The words had been effortless. I didn't speak much in class, but my words always found a home on the page. I felt the hot glare of students as I bounded around the room looking for art supplies.

It felt good.

Numbers may have abandoned me (as made evident by my pencil jabs and scribblings on math worksheets), but words were forever my friends.

Several nights ago I sat in the big "leather" chair opposite the computer screen. I stared at it, pleading for inspiration. My hands reached for the keys and pulled back.

Crumbs.

Well, someone needs to clean that up!

So I did. For nearly an hour I cleaned my keyboard and computer desk, reorganized my bookshelf and vacuumed the office.

I sat down once again. The screen saver was mesmerizing.

I got nothing, I muttered to myself. But, I forced myself to put something down. Anything. Three words. And a title. DRAFT.

And off to bed I went.

Where are my words? Where did they go?

Though at times I fancy myself a writer (or writer wannabe), I don't own that title. But, I do still own my desire to capture my life in words. Yet, they escape me over and over. The few that remain end up in the darkness of a draft, waiting to be plucked from a sad oblivion where they can become another bone in the body of a story.

Poor words. They float with purpose in my head, yet as they ready themselves to pour out onto the page, they become lost, directionless and seemingly resentful.

I watch as JR moves across the floor with excitable precision. His eyes dart from me to his father. I can tell he is yanking and pulling at an idea in his head. His growing curiosity. His uncanny problem-solving (diaper=sling--I kid, but you know it'll happen). His ever-increasing power over his weary parents. I want to write about it.

She never stops moving. Unlike her brother, who barely lifted a foot while safely ensconced in my belly, she uses my insides to conduct what I can only assume is fetal aerobics or maybe kickboxing. The other night I sang to her. Her movements slowed. Either she had locked her hands over her ears or she was lulled by my voice. I choose to believe the latter. Either way, I wanted to write about it.

The final day of my mom's group commenced with a large group of hormonal SAH mommies congregating in a church hall. Food, red carpet, an awards show. And tears. So many tears I had to stifle a laugh from the overwhelming sound of sobs and snotty sniffles. I bit the insides of my mouth, desperate to belong. No tears. Nothing. I thought of lost kittens and the ending of La Bamba. Nothing. So desperate was I not to let the growing giggle escape, that in the end I grabbed a tissue and dramatically blotted my tearless face. I wanted so much to write about that.

“Every writer I know has trouble writing.” Yeah, Mr. Heller, that doesn't help me.

Early on I used to just write. I didn't care about how the word looked on the page. It didn't have to wear Versace, drive a BMW or even have a very big bank account. It just had to say something. I vomited, cried, spit and pooped on pages all the time--heart, soul, guts--mashed on the page. Bodily fluids produced where my brain could not.

And that was OK.

Over time I found a way to let my brain in on the party. It was a good thing. Instead of a bunch of crazy kids running the show with their cliched adjectives, broken beer bottles, twisted phrasing and the drunk kid no one knows, there was some order, some logic, creativity with a purpose.

In the last few years, hitting hard the last few months, my brain has kicked out the kids all together (only inviting them back when it needs a beer and a laugh).

In other words. I think too much.

Way too much.

What will JR thinks when he reads this? What if my mom finally figures out the ON button and stumbles upon my blog? What if I reread this later and realize that I'm completely dillusional about my mothering, writing, humanity? What if . . .

So, I wait until I am near exhaustion to write--usually around the 2 AM hour. My brain is tired and weak. The party kids enter the house--unafraid, unencumbered, ready to dance.

And that's when I let go.

I think too much. And while I do the stories become smaller and smaller. The ideas that once blossomed into something to behold disappear as if never there. The moments that cling, waiting for a chance to spread wings, fly and dive onto the page, fall, slowly, peacefully, with not a word of farewell.

Sad. But so true.

I should write about this.

And this is how a DRAFT found the light and warmth of the page . . .

I demanded that my brain finally share the stage and a thousand and one stories, ideas and moments stumbled in. Ready. Willing. Letting go.

Amazing how words can breathe when you let them--how when you just accept them for what they are that they can do just about anything.

Are they always pretty? No. Are they always perfect? No way. Will they always be a contender for a Pulizter? Only in the mind of a deliusional grade schooler. Will they always be true? When you let them . . . yes.

And that's what matters most.

And if by chance my mom finds the ON button and crashes the party . . . HI! Oh, and don't bother with the archives. That's just old stuff you don't ever need to read. I swear.