Easy Baby In Da House

There is a certain isolation to being a new mother. Though I'm lucky I'm an introverted person and I can happily sustain long periods of time alone, there comes a point where I need conversation. The Dude is my first go-to. I start looking forward to him coming home around 4:00 or so. Sometimes he's not home till nearly 7:00. Then he's usually tired, I'm tired and Jack is not.

We've done brunch a few times, often with Buddy B and his fiancee. It's a nice thing to look forward to: an easy trip to a restaurant in the neighbourhood with friends, Jack's not too taxed, I get out of the house and socialize and then come home. I don't need much anymore, just some conversation and a reason to get dressed and I can feel as though my day has been very good.

Something kind of amazing happened the night before last that didn't repeat last night: Jack slept through the night. He's not even eight weeks old yet and he slept from 9:00 till 7:00. Like, seriously. Not at all what we were expecting. Getting that kind of sleep was unreal. I'd forgotten what it was like not to wake up and feed him. Thing is, my breasts were so full I watched the right one leak all over me while I nursed with the left.

Everyone assures me there will be a turning point around three months. I'll get out more, Jack will fall into a routine with naps and now that he's slept through one night, I'm beginning to see it happening. I can believe it.

He really is a good baby. I'm grateful for him. The baby fairies don't hand out wee ones like this to everybody. The kid sleeps and eats and burps and otherwise is fairly content. The Dude and I only want one. Not only can we not comfortably afford two, or really desire a big family anyway, but we're pretty sure that if we had a second child there would be some sort of a reckoning for this easy baby (And I mean comparatively easy, not easy generally).

I'm thinking once his naps are more predictable, I may try writing my novel again. I have gained significantly more life experience as of late and I think I'll have more now to put into my story. And hopefully, if all goes well, I'll have the time to do it.

Snuggles.

Lazy

I've been doing the gym thing now for eight weeks now, going on nine. I'm one lazy bastard. I really and truly am. I am sedentary. So this actually is a big deal for me.

I wasn't fat going into this commitment, but I certainly was in poor shape. I was given a full work-up and learned I was as unhealthy as I had suspected I was. Very exciting. Validation at its worst. My measurements were taken and I was weighed, my endurance and flexibility catalogued. And interestingly they did this ultrasound-type thingy to measure my muscle/fat density. I was squishy.

There's the foundation program you start out with to get used to working out, get some sort of base ability, and then after that they work on building your muscle. This makes you more able to sustain the exercise to lose weight and such. I don't need to lose a lot, really. But I certainly wouldn't mind five fewer pounds on my frame.

I've noticed some differences. One, I'm stronger. My shoulders, thighs, arms and butt are looking firmer and mildly leaner. My sides are a little trimmer looking, but again, it's mostly increased firmness. My abdomen, though, is my cross to bear. The pebble in my shoe. The ant in my picnic. IBS, man. The constant bloat I sport means almost constant distention. And I know it's distention because a colonic deflates that bad boy and I get to experience normalcy for a short while and enjoy the lovely flatness of stomach happiness. Then I eat something that tastes good or I have a bad day and boom. Like there's a balloon in my tummy.

I'm signed up for six months. I have four and a half months left to go. I could have signed up for a year, but something stopped me. I think because eventually I'm going to scale us back a lot to prepare our finances for a baby. But who knows. Maybe I'll keep it up. Getting in better shape has been a 2012 goal of sorts. No reason I can't try to maintain it.

My other goal, my book, is at 45,000 words. I'm doing a lot of editing right now, reworking sentences, making foreshadowing choices, refining the story, expanding the dialogue. Sometimes it's difficult to plough forward, and to keep invested it's nice to improve on what you've got. Sometimes my editing choices give me ideas for the next chapter, too.

But oh mercy, it's a long road. Long, long, long. The idea of finished strikes me as this wild fantasy. I have no idea how that will feel. Will feel, not would feel. This is definitely happening.

TV/Writing, not related

I'm going to be on TV on Wednesday. I can't talk much about it, 'cause I signed a legal document and all the jazz, but hoo boy, it's all really happening. Mildly nervous if not completely nervous. I've never been on ye olde TV before for anything. Well, I once saw my face on the CBC during a weather report. That's about it. Not really the same thing.

My friends and I are having a viewing party, though I'll have PVRed the episode a couple hours earlier. My best friend and I will watch it together over the phone and freak out. Dude. Just dude.

Once this whole thing is done I will literally have no immediately plans or schemes or big projects on the go. It will truly be back to normal everyday life for me. And that's a charming notion. Just living life, saving monies, spending time with friends, writing my book, and work.

I guess the book writing is a project, though somehow it doesn't feel that way. Still only a quarter of the way into my first draft. I'm at a point where I have to dig seriously into my character's backstory and I think it's going to get a little dark. And I've been getting mentally prepared for that.

I recently read a book where the writer had all this build-up for her protagonist and it was totally anti-climactic because the plot didn't really go where it needed to go. It was almost like the author was too afraid to get gritty about a necessarily gritty topic. I want to be braver and bolder. I want to pack the sort of punch that's needed to make an impact in the story.

It's going to be hard. And occasionally I get concerned about anyone reading the story thinking that it's in any way autobiographical. I wonder how many other people feel that way when they're writing.

Video Fun and Writing Joy

Just a little something I filmed today.
I love my cats.

I've been making progress on my novel. I've never gotten this far before. Usually I get stumped by the setting I've chosen, or I get lost in my plot because I've taken it somewhere I don't know how to resolve. This time things are working. It helps I like my character. I decided not to define her in any way, just let her say or think what comes naturally and let her personality unfold the way it wants to.

I've been trying these days to eke out creative fulfillment in my life. And now that I'm rapidly approaching 30, I really feel pressure to end my 20s with something in my hands, a completed manuscript. For once.

And maybe all my previous failures to write have simply been due to inexperience. I've been writing a lot these past few years. Maintaining a blog challenges me to put thoughts, ideas and feelings into words on a regular basis. It's like any muscle. You don't use it, you grow weak.

My drawing muscle, for instance, has softened. I can still do it. The ability doesn't go anywhere, but it's no longer something that is honed and nimble. I struggle a bit more. I used to be able to whip up drawings of any sort of character without a thought, like improv. Now? I have to think. And the finer techniques have grown shoddy. Working on my aunt's children's book has been useful, but it's taken a lot more effort than it would have years ago.

But writing is something I've been working on, and I have far more life experiences to draw on than in years past. I've gotten to a point where I feel so comfortable with the written word that breaking the rules is fun and enjoyable. Sentence fragment. See? Delightful. Heh.

Seriously, though, I suppose what I'm saying is I'm not wrapped up in my head as much as I used to be about the rules and the details and it's flowing a bit more organically. It's enjoyable. It's work, but it's satisfying.

I think about my character a lot, what's going to happen to her, what must've happened to her, how she'll react to the coming challenges, and I feel excited.

2012 is going to be the year I write a book.

Chapter Four

2:20 in the morning and all is well. All could be better. For example, I could be sleeping.

I did some writing tonight. I've completed four chapters of a new novel I'm attempting to write. It's still too new to really talk about in depth, and obviously still a first draft. But I'm pleased with my progress thus far. I've been developing my protagonist, introduced a couple characters and have introduced a conflict. Yes, yes, writing 101. Good for me.

But it's encouraging to keep it up. I'm trying to not just wait for creative impulses, I'm attempting to tap into what I'm pretty sure is there and lying dormant. Getting into a comfort zone and not challenging myself has been bad for my creativity. I used to devote most of my spare time into storytelling and drawing, hours a day.

That pretty much stopped after art school. If you're not meant to be a commercial artist, an art program can kill your drive. Perhaps if I had just leapt into journalism first, I wouldn't have quit for all those years. Many of the classmates I met in in Art Fundamentals pursued their dreams and completed other programs or became commercial artists of some kind. You can't help but question yourself when you're in the minority of those not going for it.

Like I've been saying, though, 2012 is my year. It's the year I'm taking to make creative changes. Just need to keep up my motivation.

Try

It is colder than Frosty's asshole out there.

It's also the last day of my vacation. Tomorrow it's back to the grind. So to stretch out my day and make it feel more indulgent I redeemed a Groupon for a manicure/pedicure in Mount Pleasant. And it was pleasant, the neighbourhood and the nail salon. It was called Fabulous Manicure Bar, which is not the most appropriate name, I think. Not because it wasn't fabulous, but because the best adjective would be "charming". But I suppose Charming Manicure Bar isn't so catchy.

Going out into that freezing abyss was total crap, though. My god, it got cold fast. It felt blistering out there, the kind of chill that really penetrates your bones. I have an incredibly warm coat, which is mandatory in this country, but still.

I have the rest of the day to spend as I please. I need to do some more drawings for my aunt's book, so that's on my to-do list. But I also want to write. I have made a practice of blogging these past few years, which has been very helpful in keeping me in practice. I think it's important not to get lax about it. I did that with my drawing and it doesn't come quite so easily now, not the creative part. I don't want writing to become a struggle. If you can't write creatively, forget it.

Really, though, my problem is motivation. My biggest obstacle is myself. I'm not a go-getter. I enjoy being comfortable. I'll do what I need to in order to get comfortable and then stay there, more or less. I don't shoot for the stars. I enjoy my life, I love my free time, but sometimes I really think I should be attempting more, just to really try, see what I can do.

Permission

Today I'm going to a party to say goodbye to a co-worker. After seven years, she's leaving us to go back to school and pursue a career. Good on her.

Whenever someone leaves, and it's really infrequent, it makes me question my life a little bit. Where am I going? Is this what I want to be doing? In many ways, yes. I work at home and I watch TV. Closed captioning is a good job, and it's a necessary service for the Deaf.

But... still. Sometimes I feel like my inner artist isn't being heard. I'm always so impressed with people who uproot their lives and incomes to follow a dream career. It's definitely not playing it safe.

I've plugged a couple new pages into my graphic novel. Still haven't gotten around to deciding how honest to get. Mostly it's the family stuff that is holding me back. My extended family all want me to reconcile with my father. Yes, I'm estranged from him, and with good reason. It's just too hard on me to maintain a relationship with someone who's mentally ill and who has a substance abuse problem he doesn't want to acknowledge. Plus many other issues.

So, to be honest in my graphic novel would be alienating to a number of people. It's probably be therapeutic, but my dad goes off the deep end if if thinks I so much as mentioned to someone he owes me money, never mind what he'd do if he saw an illustrated catalogue of all his abuse. But it's not his reaction I'd be worried about. I just don't want his side of the family to hate me for it.

I can only imagine how I'd feel if I learned my brother was abusive and had terrorized his children. It'd really, really hurt. I'd probably not want to believe it. I'd probably wish they'd work it out so everything could be fine. It's only natural they want to believe he wasn't so bad, or that he's changed (again).

I've been told stories about Grandpa being a difficult man. My aunts would tell me he was difficult and they would share stories to paint a picture of his stubborn and gruff personality. And I hear them and I think but do not say that it sounds like a mild case. I hold back the stories of my father that would curl their hair. And even when I allow myself to tell a couple of them, I see the shock register, and then the denial set in. And again I'm encouraged to work things out.

I know they love me. I love them, too. I suppose, though, that part of being an adult is accepting that you can't expect validation for your feelings, even if you need it. That you have to be strong in your convictions that you're doing the right things for yourself and handle it with grace when your loved ones disagree. I'm still working on that one. Probably will be for awhile.

And in the meantime, I'll be trying to give myself permission to tell my story.

Naked

Since I heard that there was little to no chance of promotion in, basically, the foreseeable future, I've been working on my graphic novel. I suppose it was easy to get lazy when I thought there would be growth in other areas of my life. This week I've completed two new pages.

It's hard, though. It's autobiographical and it's going to deal with some sensitive subjects, things that I may have spoken about to close friends, may have written down privately at one point, but have never illustrated for a wider audience. I'm realizing this is going to require more bravery than I had considered.

I think about the best graphic novels I know, which are about the author: Blankets, Persepolis, Stitches. All required the writer to be honest, revealing and to share. If you're not willing to go down as deep as you need to, what is the point? The story I want to tell I've been bullied into not telling. Oh, I've talked about it with friends, but never in any kind of public way. And when you make art, it's public. Because I'd want people to read it, it's very public.

Living with someone's alcoholism is a painful experience, but a common one. It usually involves being coerced into secrecy. Even being free from the drunk in question, you still somehow feel bound by their rules.

Writing this novel feels like being naked.

Merry Christmas Eve to all

T'was the day before Christmas and my brother draws near
I'll pick him up at the station, and then bring him here.
I made him a stocking but it's not up with care
I'll lay it out while he sleeps and when he wakes it'll be there.
That's how mom used to do it when we were small
so I'll sneak in quietly and hope I won't fall.
He'll sleep on the couch, and us in our bed
And visions of rum and eggnog will dance in our heads.
We'll open our presents after we've awaken
And then we'll all eat some good Christmas bacon.
We'll probably need coffee to be in good form
though when we were kids, 4:00 a.m. was the norm
Since things are quiet and so very low-key
With no running around to do, we'll go see a movie.
Avatar's out and with a glowing review
And once we're back home, we're eating beef stew.
We'll start cooking it tonight in the trusty crock pot
And half a day later it'll be juicy and hot.
We'll all cuddle Smokey and have a hot drink
and then toast to Jerry who was gone in a blink.
It'll be cozy and peaceful, quiet and light
Merry Christmas to all, and have a good night

No heat = hibernation

I'm still writing my book. It's coming along slowly, but every time I take a go at it, I move the plot forward. So this is good. So long as it doesn't feel painful, impossible or stale to write, I should be okay. It's a huge project. I just need to stay on task. Unlike every single other time in my adult life when I've tried to complete a full work of writing.

I won't be writing today, however, because I'm overtired. I keep sleeping far too long and at the wrong time. The result is feeling like a lumbering groggy bear being disturbed during hibernation. Speaking in full sentences today is proving too much to ask of me. Also, it's chilly in this place. Had a conversation with one of the downstairs neighbours yesterday. She said she would address the heat issue at a later time.

There would be no heat issue if they would just come to accept the fact that the Dude and I are deserving of warmth in our own home. I mean, come on. It's November in Canada. There will be no more turning off the heat, I don't care how much money you'll save if I freeze to death during the day.

I need to practice my dance choreography for the student gala. But lately I've been too damn cold to get motivated. I don't want to be out from under the covers. Unfortunately, being cozy under the covers leads to falling asleep, and therein lies the basis for all my irritations today. Amazing what a little heat in my apartment would solve.

Fours weeks till showtime, and the ass is grass

I am still plugging away at my book, bit by bit. Sometimes just adding to it so the story won't get cold. Often if you take too much of a break, trying to get back into writing the same story feels like eating pizza that's been left out a couple days. Just not happening.

I've decided rather than trying to create a full story off the bat, I'm going to just begin a new chapter each time it feels right, even if it's just after a page of writing. I can beef up my details, dialogue, and descriptions on the second draft. All I need to do this first draft is to complete the actual plot. I need a skeleton before I can build a body. So far so good.

I have no personal deadlines for this project. But as far as other "projects" of sorts go, I have only four weeks until my student dance gala. That's only four dance classes to get good enough and organized enough and confident enough to make this happen. It's also going to require a lot of practice at home, and there's not a ton of room for choreography in this living room, or anywhere else in this apartment.

I also don't have a top I want to wear for the performance. Last year I wore a halter with coins on it. It was fun, but it didn't expose much of my torso. And I don't have very much torso to expose. This is a small handicap for belly dance. On the video of the night, I saw myself and I didn't look... right. I looked rather squat, I think. To counteract that, I need to show more tummy, to elongate what I do have.

When I was watching the other dancers move, long stomachs exposed, and I could see an undulation wave down their abdomen, I felt envious. Though one woman looked like she was half an inch away from giving the audience a peep of her holiest of holies. I wasn't envious of that. Rather, that's my nightmare. I'm convinced if I tie a scarf too low on my hips or wear my skirt further down or something, everything will just fall off my ass. I've never seen that happen to anyone else, even women with very flat bums, but that doesn't mean it won't happen to me. Things like that have a way of happening to me.

Maybe I'll go practice now. I have a belly dance skirt and I'll wear it all low down, learn to convince myself my rear end will hang on to my clothes.

Writing For Realsies

I've started writing again (I mean, other than this blog). I think it's shaping up to be teen fiction. Maybe once I begin the second draft, it'll mature into adult fiction. But who knows. I have a habit of beginning a work of writing and then... quitting. Often it's because I get too overly focused on the details.

Like, making up a city that doesn't exist. I then have to imagine the entire infrastructure and then eventually I overwhelm myself. And if I place the setting somewhere I've been OR based on somewhere I've been, I start getting wrapped up in how close a resemblance a fictional place is to the real thing.

It's too much. I'm one of those writers who needs to write what they know when it comes to cities. So I'm basing this book on my hometown. Everything takes place there. I know it inside and out. And without that major roadblock, I'm able to be more creative with my plot.

When I was six I wrote my first "book" and illustrated it. It was about six pages long about a Halloween costume. It took me a few days and I was jazzed with it. I probably threw it out after about a month or so.

When I was in grade five or six or something I wrote my first comic book. It was about five friends and how their lives grew apart. It was a big undertaking and looking back it was total shit, but still. I finished it.

When I was 16, I drew up this series of anime-inspired magic girls and I think the best word I could use for it now was storyboards. Each large piece of paper was one panel and included all the dialogue. I did five volumes, plus a bonus epilogue. I finished that too and it was the last thing I've ever completed that had any amount of writing attached to it.

Short stories I've done, but that's the thing with a short story: it's short. In the amount of time it takes to write a first draft of a novel, you could be polishing your short story to a high sheen.

I was on the subway thinking about my life and my choices and what talents I have, such as they are, that are largely amounting to nothing due entirely to laziness on my part. And a second later I came up with an idea for a novel. I practically wrote the thing in my head as I walked home and spent the rest of the night at my computer.

If only every night were as inspiring and motivating. I never seem to get a second wind. I miss being a kid, or even a teenager, when I write. I just did it because it was fun. I never got bogged down by, I don't know, "facts" or "life". Creativity is a gift, and a part of me is worried that if I don't use it now, I'll lose it.

I really want to finish this story. I really do. Let's see how this goes.