Read to your children

My first son came along when I was only 21 and still trying to work and get through college and be a wife. We didn’t have a lot of money but we did have some books, just a few at first. We had the staple Dr.
Suess collection. In the first two years of my son’s life I spent my days fighting the fog of depression, changing diapers, walking the university campus pushing a stroller, working third shift at Walmart, and reading the same books over and over to my son. It got to the point that I didn’t even need the books anymore. The words were burned into my brain. He was what is referred to as hyper-sensitive or overly observant and it was hard for him to relax and shut down, except when I was telling stories or singing the ABC’s. If I stopped speaking he would throw his whole heart into crying. And so I can still recite the ABC’s backward, from any point without pause. I still know oh The Places You’ll Go, Where The Wild Things Are, Fox in Socks, and many others by heart. Even in the car when he would go beserk and we didn’t have an audiobook with us, I would start reciting his stories and he would calm down. Needless to say, a lot of housework was put off until the end of the day or the next day. My kitchen floors didn’t gleam. My laundry basket was never empty. But my son could show you his ABC’s before he was one. He could read small words before he was two and by the time he was in third grade he had read all of the Harry Potter series and tested “post high school” for his reading level. Don’t leave it to the schools. It’s your job to teach your children to love reading, to crave knowledge, to show them a safe place to escape to when the world is too much. And all you have to do is set them in your lap and read them a story.

*SUCKER*

SUCKER
It is tattooed across my forehead.
It must be.
Or perhaps those closest to me just know that I cannot decline their requests for help.
It has been awhile since I have posted a blog entry.
Why?
Because I am easily taken advantage of.
Especially when my sister sends my sweet, beautiful nieces in to do her dirty work. "Aunt Gwenn," they coo at me. "Would you make a video for our Girl Scout bridging over ceremony? You make such good videos......"
My ego has nothing to do with this. Flattery never would have worked if it hadn't been accompanied by their rosy cheeks and bright eyes. I caved and then dozens and dozens of pictures started trickling in. I know there is software that allows you to just drop the .jpg files in and it mixes them and motions them and it's awesome. I don't work like that. I like the pictures to flow with the music.
So. On top of writing. On top of gardening (and thank goodness it has been raining lately...I HAVE to stay inside). On top of handling some media issues for my church...I am putting together a bridging over ceremony video and an awards video (because people at my church also know I'm a sucker).
This is why I haven't had time to blog. It was either blog or let the children eat nothing but cereal all week and wear the same clothes everyday and walk everywhere they need to go. (We live in the sticks, I'd probably get arrested if I tried to enforce that.).
I'm alive. I'm writing. Just not blogging.
Hope everyone is doing well.

Crashing After Summer

I have to tell you, this has been the craziest summer on record. 
We have experienced near-constant company for the past three months. 
This is no joke. 
For at least 3/4 of the summer we had a minimum of 5 children in the house. 
Sometimes, for weeks on end, that number rose to 10. All between the ages of 13-5.
Now, this did mean that they kept each other occupied. 
But there were many scuffles and lot of drama (usually surrounding a certain 12 year-old niece who doesn't understand why her 11 and 13 year old male cousins no longer feel inclined to hang out with her so much and then she tried to turn mother hen/informant on them). But what kept me distracted from the researching and writing that should have been taking place was primarily the laundry. Constant laundry. Laundry and dishes and the feeding of the masses. There wasn't a lot of playing outside, especially after the pool sprung a leak, because of our record-setting temperatures that rarely dropped below 100. 
While we have been mostly company-free for nearly a week, there have still been trips to the river (sometimes twice a week, not my idea) to swim with visiting family members in the same swimming hole our great-great-great grandparents cooled off in. And while it is a joy to see my youngest son diving off the rock I jumped off as a child, twice in a week is too much. 
The school year brings with it the promise of being even busier. My sons are social butterflies, sports players and Scouts and members of the youth group at church. But, at least during half of the day I will be blessed with a few quiet hours to work. 
....
But if I try to work at home the laundry stares at me, the garden pleads to be weeded, the bathroom is certain it needs another scrub. For this reason I am going to give writing at the local library a whirl. Now I understand why some authors spring to have an office away from home. 
On that note, the washer just finished and it's time to hang the clothes out to dry...

The Trials of a Chameleon

My days are often over before I am even aware they have begun.
It's so frustrating. The thing is, I am a very introverted person caught in an extrovert's life. It's tiring and my creative mind is having difficulty working properly under so much stress. No. I cannot back off. Years ago I decided my sons would not be hindered by my quirky, hermit self. We are booked most nights of the week and now that Scouting has started for this school year, we are also booked most weekends.
It's overwhelming when I want to be my writer self.
As a teenager I would go out on nice autumn days and stretch out on a large tree that had fallen across a creek and just lie there and daydream and think. After awhile I would go in and begin writing. Or, if I didn't fall asleep on the log first, I would hop down and curl up against a hollowed out tree and write in my journal.
These days are over.
I have become hyperactive. It is very difficult for me to even just sit and watch a movie and do nothing else. There are days when it finally becomes too much and I will just sit in the shower and cry. That sounds so horribly girly, but cut me some slack. I only cry for a minute or two before I realize such silliness doesn't accomplish anything, then I pull myself up by my bootstraps and trudge on.
What's the point? Who cares? The gals who have read Filter care. They want to read the second book and I am trying to write it not from my practical mind but from my creative mind. Good grief, maybe I should change my pen name to Sybil. Thing is, it takes a lot of time to slip away, for the worries of the day to melt into the background, to stop thinking about reviews and the bills I can't pay because I'm not selling enough books and how I should really just get a real job with a steady paycheck and benefits. I'm good out there in the business world, in the world of broadcast journalism....but I am also a dreamer, a drifter, a bit of a flake. I'm kind of like Madonna, only with stronger morals and more clothes and sans the personal trainer. I can redefine myself to fit the moment. But now, with writing becoming my job...I find that the practical and creative sides of my worlds have crashed together.
How to be one and the other all at once?

They Do Grow Up

My youngest son has a loose tooth. At first I started to protest, "He's too young!" And then my oldest (10 1/2) reminded me that he was the same age when he lost his first tooth. I have never been the type of mother to cry over milestones. It makes me proud to watch my sons grow and it is the most exciting thing to me, not only as a mother, but as a human. Each life has locked within it so much potential and mystery. That is the fun of raising children, watching them become whoever they will be. It is most likely the idea that I am done with early childhood milestones that is causing me this grief. It is a position I am not ready to be in. 
You see I always wanted a large family. I am the youngest of four. Not a particularly large family, but my extended family was always nearby. There were ten of us cousins growing. I loved the chaos of it all, the huge meals, the endless row of beach towels on the clothes line in the summer. This romantic notion of large families is also probably due to my father's cousin's large brood. She lived twenty minutes away in an old, rambling brick home with a wide porch and dogs sleeping on the lawn. There were children everywhere. Biological, foster, adopted. As a child I would go home and draw not selfishly imagined mansions, but homes big enough to welcome all the adopted children in the world. Or, so my small 8 year old mind assumed. 
When we got to the point of seriously considering marriage I asked (both my husbands) if they would consider adopting, if they would like a large family. It was a requirement of mine. 
But here I am. 32 and living in my parents' home with my three children from my first marriage and my husband. Although he doesn't really count because he works so much. :) The plan is to eventually buy their property and build our own house back in the woods. This is what my mother wants. She knows without our presence she will have to move into town eventually. But she's quite comfortable where she is, thank you very much. My husband has no children of his own and would like to have a few, when we can afford it. In about 50 years. 
And then there is that ever-present yearning that won't go away, to give homes and hope and love to those without. This is, of course, at odds with my dream of traveling around the world and living like a hermit. But that seems a very selfish dream when you consider that a child could have a home and a family. I pray almost daily that God would see fit to let my books be widely successful. Not so I can buy a Jaguar (tho I wouldn't mind a reliable car) or a fancy schmancy home, but so I can afford to build a home here, where I can take care of my mother. So I can afford to build a home large enough for our children and several more who would become ours. It breaks my heart, the waiting. It tears me to pieces to think it may never come to fruition. My children don't have much in the way of material things or weekends and vacays spent at expensive hotels or amusement parks, but they have full and vibrant lives and I ache to share that with those who would otherwise never experience that. 
Sorry, I ramble. But the older I get the more it gnaws at me. And I just wanted to share it. 

Somebody Restrain the Heathens

There is a slight problem in trying to be an awesome mother, an attentive wife, a successful hobby farmer, and a self-published author. This problem is called: TIME. It seems my days are over before I have accomplished half of what I wanted to when the day first began. And most days I end with the feeling that I was not the mother I should have been and that the surfaces could have used another dusting. We live in the country, things get dusty quickly. The tomatoes have not been planted. The peppers only just went in and I forgot to cook off the man's homemade sausage (he's a chef, that's what they do in their free time). Looking back over my work on The BlueStocking Girl I am constantly amazed that I wrote that. How on earth did I manage to write something that sounds that good? Because, most days, I am a bumbling moron who can't string two words together. The secret is, getting into The Zone. The Zone is that magical place my brain slips away into when I am writing for a good length of time. The music that is blasting through my earbuds is no longer heard, the only thing that makes it through is the emotion from the music (this is probably why Katherine and Viktor in Filter wouldn't cooperate with me unless I was listening to Airplanes by B.o.B. Seriously. I know. But it has a very edgy, desperately angry vibe to it.) The Zone is that place wherein I forgot to eat and sleep, it's that place that makes me a total flake upon my exit. It is that place where I stop hearing my own voice and am only aware of what my characters are saying and feeling. It is a very difficult place to slip into when the little heathens now occupying my home 24/7 keep fighting and asking for food and drink and attention. And then I feel guilty for feeling bothered by my beautiful sons. Beautiful, talkative, energetic sons. And then I think maybe I should make them a proper dinner and not just soup and sandwiches. And maybe I should clean the bathroom AGAIN. 
It's just one of those days. When all of life's demands are pressing down on me and the need to write is overwhelming me. My brain just might explode. Pretty certain another half-hour of The Fairly Odd Parents just might push me over the edge.  Oh and by the way, I'm dropping hints to Book 2 here: http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/16313209 The von Strassenberg Saga is also available for Nook and in paperback ($10) at: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/filter-gwenn-wright