Transformation

Photo courtesy of margolove.

It's been three weeks of intensive writing, of getting up most mornings at 4:30 a.m. and sitting down at the computer with nothing but a cup of coffee and my sleepy imagination. By the time I approach the second hour my head's spinning, whether it's from plot confusion or a caffeine buzz or the thumping of Sagebrush Blues in my headphones it's hard to tell. But something magical is happening to this thick, foggy alphabet soup I've been simmering. Words, once sitting flat on the page, are getting up and shaping themselves into a mountain here, an alkali flat there, a dirt road leads to a shack and an old man walks out of it. I'm loving it!

In the process of writing a 50,000-word novel in one month, I'm learning what kind of writer I am, the how of writing, of what my brain does when it's cooking up a story on the spot. The Wall Street Journal interviews a bunch of top writers on this topic in this fascinating article.

Unmasked

When I learned I would be breastfeeding a fourth (and final) child, I wanted just one shirt emblazoned with these words: I make milk. What's your superpower? Today's guest post by my wonderful friend Kyndale is a one-two punch for multitasking moms. Come on, ladies, let me hear you roar!

Courtesy of bbaltimore.

I am a superhero and I have super powers.

I can jump over and ignore piles of laundry in a single bound. WHOOSH!! I can heal real and imaginary wounds with just a kiss and a hug. ZAP!! I can whip up a meal plan and grocery list in mere seconds. POW!! I can read the same book 100 times in a row without getting dry throat. BOOM!!

Flash back 11 years ago, before kids. I was just a mortal. A pupa of a human being waiting to undergo my metamorphosis. How can anyone know what their life will become after children? It's a door that cannot be opened before it appears.

Eleven years has passed so quickly, as if I've been in a time warp. I have given birth to three children, breastfed for more than 9 years, and cleaned up more spilled _______ than humanly possible. I can live for days, weeks, months and years without proper sleep and still operate a toaster oven or drive a car while maintaining my lane. It even amazes my superhero self.

I am dumbfounded and bewildered that the love for my children is boundless even in the face of unthinkable sassiness, rambunctiousness and mischievous behavior. I attribute my ability to get past these and other daily doings to my super powers. How can it be explained otherwise?

I have accepted my super powers as a gift -- privilege -- and choose to live in obscurity, blending in to society under the disguise of stay-at-home mom. At times, someone will slip kryptonite into my smoothie. That's when self-doubt creeps in and my super powers fade. I have learned to breathe again, pick myself up and put my uni-tard back on.

Just the other day, I was laying in bed watching my littlest sleep, breathing in his sweet and tangy boy smell (with my super smelling powers of course), a delightful smell that only I can appreciate. As he woke , he smiled and said, “I love you Mommy.” Seriously, that was the first thing that came out of his little lips! It's moments like these that my purpose is clear.

Yes, I am a superhero!

About the writer: Kyndale aka Supermom is a stay-at-home mom of three super kids. She enjoys knitting, sewing, gardening, and crafts. She writes about her adventures as a Supermom on her blog, Earthy Crunchy. She lives in Sparks, Nevada.

Diverted

Courtesy of obo-bobolina.

A niggle of worry has rooted itself in my brain and sprouted out of my ears. Tendrils of doubt wrap themselves around shoulders, snake down arms and twist around fingers, my oh-so-very important writing fingers.

I'm half-way to my goal of 50,000 words -- and my fingers, which couldn't keep pace with the words that were tripping over each other in their eagerness to appear on the page, are slowing, stiffening. Click. Pause. Delete. Click. Click.... Click. ... Cli... ck. The fingers complain about these worrisome vines, the shade they're now working under, how it's making them turn cold and stiff. I flex them, rub them, cup them and breathe warm air on them.

I know just what I need.

Gloves!

Fingerless gloves to wrap around these hardworking fingers that are chipping away at my half-written, poorly planned novel. And because I think knitting is nice, I hop onto Raverly and find many, many pairs of gloves. Too many. I'm overwhelmed and decide to search for hats instead, because really, it isn't the fingers but the old noggin' that's sprouted this doubt. I need a new hat to replace my old chili pepper one, a new hat as orange as the leaves, the pumpkins, the flames in our fireplace, something that will burn away the vines of doubt and worry and hesitation that have wrapped around this half-baked novel of mine.

Courtesy of striatic.

I wander deeper and deeper into the Internet, drooling over balls of wool and silk and start tossing them into a shopping basket. I am minutes away from buying more than $70 worth of yarn before I remember that I own mittens, blue fingerless mittens. I sigh, close one, two, three windows. I shut down email, turn off the Internet and pull the old gloves on. My hands are warm and I kiss the tips of my fingers and return to my story.

Cli... ck ...Click. Pause. Delete. Click. Click.... Click ...