Logan Don't Wear Tights

From

So, I'm writing a superhero novel. My first novel (the one I'm trying to finish a rewrite of this week) is a much more literary endeavor, and while I think that it has merit (obviously, or I wouldn't give it all this work in hopes of publishing it), it's been a hard one to write. This time, I'm looking for something more fun to write, a lighter path into inner darkness, so to speak.

So, superheroes are on my brain.  That, and all the trailers for the new Wolverine movie all over the socials, leads me to think about my favorite comic book guy, who may or may not be a superhero.  Logan. Or Wolverine. Or James Fowler.  He has different names. But to me, he's Logan.

Logan's been getting a lot of attention lately. Mainly because a tall, handsome Australian man has been playing him in big-budget movies.  But, that's not Logan. Don't get me wrong. I loves me some Hugh Jackman, and he does a good job in the role, as good as someone who is too young, handsome and too charming for the part can do (and who is there old enough without looking old and steely enough? There's a reason he was created on paper).  I'll see the movies and enjoy them.

But Logan, my Logan, would laugh at them, if he could be bothered to watch them.  He'd spit out a hunk of the cigar he'd been chewing and grimace at me with the juice dripping into his whiskers and ask if they really thought he could be tamed and kept on a leash like that. He'd call me kid as he said it and mean no irony. He'd think I was a kid. Probably an annoying one. He'd somehow seem to look down on me even though I'm four inches taller than him.

My Logan wears a white tee shirt, blue jeans and work boots. His hair and beard are wild, resembling an animal's fur as much as human hair. My Logan is the one whose finger-knives cut him every time he unleashes them and who is not stopped by that.  He would definitely, not ever in your wildest dreams, Bub, don a yellow jumpsuit just because he chose to make a temporary alliance with some do-gooders who happened to be fighting a fight he also wanted to fight.

As the man himself says, "I'm the best there is at what I do, but what I do best isn't very nice." Damn straight.

How to Lie to Yourself Honestly

I'm rewriting my first novel this week.  While writing or first-drafting is something I can do in small chunks of time, 15 minutes here, an hour there, rewriting requires a longer chunk of time, focus.  At least that's what I've been telling myself as I played around in my new novel instead of taking on the work of rewriting that first one and making it complete. But maybe I'm lying to myself, avoiding the difficult task in favor of the lighter, honeymoon stage I'm in with the second novel.

The first novel (working title: His Other Mother) is a dark thing, exploring mental illness, infertility, marriage.  Writing the first draft, I was surprised to discover that I had, in part, been writing about my first marriage.  While the characters and the plot have nothing to do with the events or people in my lives, some of the marriage dynamics definitely did.  It's always interesting to discover what my brain has been doing behind my back, the devious ways it finds to make me confront the things I'd rather not.

Rewriting that novel now, I find that I have issues to work out regarding religion and religious leaders.  That's not so surprising in a thinking person in the twenty-first century. But striking me today is the theme of self-deception, the lies we tell ourselves to make it through. 

Lying to yourself seems like a bad thing, but I don't know that it always is.  Am I lying to myself when I put on a brave face so I can do the thing that frightens me? I'm refusing to acknowledge the truth of my fear. But I do it in good cause, to help myself take the first step. Surely, that's not the same as lying to myself about addictions or bad choices I'm making. Is it?

Sherry Morgan, my main character, knows that what she doing is wrong at some level. But, she's quite good at talking herself around morality, rewriting reality to make it allowable to do the things she wants to do, despite all evidence to the contrary.  Sometimes she almost convinces me, her author. The brain gymnastics are amazing.  In real life, as well as in fiction.

It puts me in mind of a poem I studied in grad school, "One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop.  It's a masterpiece in self-deception. You can feel the persona willing herself to believe the story she has concocted (this loss is no big deal in the scheme of things), and, that, at the same time, she knows it's a pretty lie. But a pretty lie she needs if she's to get through this. A pretty lie she has to let herself, even force herself to believe.

My character is no Elizabeth Bishop. She's just a woman who wants to be a mother and can't. But she can fool herself like nobody's business. And it takes a pretty elaborate fiction to fool her. So she writes one for herself (and then I record it for us and try to make it into good fiction for all you good people).

I can't tickle myself, because I know it's coming and surprise is part of the sensation.  But, I can delude myself and somehow exercise control over my own introspection to the point that I can keep myself from examining the hole in the story I've concocted.  So, on a small, and hopefully healthier scale, I am as big a liar as Sherry. I'm just more honest about it.

A Vacation from my Kids (All of them, at school, and at home!)

I'm taking a vacation from mothering this week. The oldest is off to visit the bio-Dad (we were married once, "bio-Dad" is a teasing nickname I use for him).  The hubby has a full week at work. I have SPRING BREAK (has to be written in capital letters).  That left only the smaller monkey, and I've just paid for camp. All day camp. Well worth the money, even given that my paycheck just got smaller again.

It's only five days, but I'm so excited just at the thought of having all this time to myself. I'll only be a mom for a few hours a day, and only to one kid, who still goes to bed early. I'll leave the house at weird times, alone, and listen to music (or an audiobook) that I choose. I'll watch television and movies full of sex, violence and swearing.  I'll read something that doesn't rhyme . . .and I'll read it silently, to myself, while drinking tea.

Many of my students and colleagues were planning trips and adventures. But, not me, I'm planning to kick everyone else out and stay home. For those who know me and my wandering feet, it's probably a giant surprise that I don't want to go anywhere.  But, I'm putting the break back in Spring Break, because, honestly, I'm feeling pretty broken.  That's what happens when life steps on you too much.

I've got a great healing plan though, and it won't change my insurance rates. I'm going to sleep enough, exercise a little and write a lot. Yeah, baby. Heaven.

Staying Alive!

Well, I made it. Spring Break. (read with flat intonation . . .woo-hoo). I can't wait to . ..zzzzzzzzzzzzz

Fantasies of Wealth

I've been daydreaming a lot about being wealthy lately.  In my daydreams, I am Nora Charles (from the Thin Man movies), off adventuring with my husband.  Maybe I win the lottery, or sue someone for damages and win. Maybe I was just inherited Daddy's money (in the daydream, I have a wealthy father instead of my more ordinary hardworking and well-enough-off-because-of-that father).  It doesn't matter where the money comes from, but in my daydream I have it.

Having money doesn't change much in my daydream. I still live in my house, though I have now expanded it to add the game room and writing garret.  I don't have servants, but someone does come by and do the yard work and I have someone who makes sure my bills gets paid and the errands I don't feel like handling get done.  I still teach, but for limited gigs that I select with students who all want to be there. I still cook, but I get to try all the cool expensive stuff whenever I want.  I travel. I travel a lot.  I buy tickets for people and take them with me. I give gifts to anyone I want, when I want to.

The main thing my daydream money does for me is give me time.  Days like today make me crave free time like addicts must crave their next hit.

If my day were my own today, I would have slept late, then taken my husband to breakfast (the girls would still have school).  After a leisurely breakfast (probably at Elmo's in Carrboro), we'd walk and talk.  T would leave me alone and I'd go write for a little while, leaving him to do his thing for a while.  We'll discreetly show you the ceiling and not talk about the afternoon. I'd read a book while I wait for the girls to come home from school.

Tonight is T's gaming night, so the girls and I would have eaten Halibut (we eat fish when T's not home) and then some kind of fancy s'more cake dessert that I made up. I wouldn't be tired and irritable from my workday, so I'd spoil both girls with attention. I'd let M teach me to apply eye makeup and try to paint N's fingernails while she reads me a comic book.We'd laugh together.

Then it would be bedtime. Since I'm Nora Charles, I'd put on something silky and beautiful, just to sleep in.  I probably wouldn't stay up that late, because I still want to take the girls to school myself, but I'd be free to if I wanted to.

Hmmm . . .maybe I'd best get back to my novel.  It probably won't make me rich, but I bet it would pay for a trip somewhere.

In sickness and in Health

Contemporary family life is a lot of balancing (hence the name of my blog: Balancing Act). Me time. We time. Focused time with each child. All of us time. Out with friends time. It's a near constant trading of favors, trying to make sure everyone's needs and desires are met often enough so that no one is stretched too thin. 

It's a lot of work, even when we're all well. 

The Sweetman has been sick these past few days. A week before that I was sick. A week before that the eldest daughter was sick. Boy has it been a month! Even as I take a moment to kvetch about it, I know that I am fortunate, because none of these illnesses were life-threatening or longer than a week in duration. But, still, it's been challenging.

Since Sweetman is ill, this weekend it fell upon me. All of it. Whatever it happened to be.  Grocery shopping, dog walking, child cleaning, taxi driving, birthday partying, meal preparing, laundry doing, errand running, dish-washing, on and on and on.

It was tough, but I made it. And Sweetman is on the mend. (He felt good enough today to be restless and feel a little bored.) So, only three days later, I can see the light at the end of this particular tunnel.

So, I think, how do single parents do this? When the light at the end of the tunnel is fifteen more years away (when the kid goes to college).  I was a single parent for two years. And I had incredible support from my mother and father. And it was still damnably difficult. So, to the women and men I know who do this alone, often without the easy support that I found, I say, Wow. You guys are amazing.

I feel blinded by gratitude for my husband, my sister, my brother-in-law, my father, my mother, my mother-in-law, friends.  Sometimes, it's too much for one person. Thank G-d I have all of you. And here's hoping for the "in health" side of those wedding vows. Soon, please.

Beware the Ides of March

March is a well named month, I think. It's the month where I have to keep putting one foot in front of the other like a good soldier and slog through the underbrush and quicksand, through increasingly hostile territory.  We march even though we are tired and sick at heart.  We march even though our feet hurt and there's no time to see a podiatrist. All in hopes of making it to that clear beautiful week we in the education game call Spring Break.

Someday, when I am appointed Queen on High, I am scrapping the school calendar as it stands and writing something that supports family life (for students and teachers), respects the amount of preparation time it takes to do this job well, and follows a pace it's possible to keep up without sacrificing your physical and mental health. When I do this, I fully expect to be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, because of all the violence that is neatly sidestepped by making us all less frustrated and more successful.

Until then, I'm reading Tim O'Brien again and thinking about the things I carry . . .and which ones I can put down for a while.