The Writer's Block

Sometimes, I want to write. I have so much to say, I know shocking isn't it? There are all these different conversations and ideas floating in my head. All at the same time. Again, another shocker. But, I can't get it on paper. It's not a writer's block. It's a huge cement wall that knocks me on my ass.

I have a ritual for releasing ideas. Lately, this is not even helping and the voices and conversations are way too many and too loud to even get on paper at my rapid speed. I have notes all over the place. Piles of papers and notebooks on my night table, notebooks in my purse, on the coffee table, random notes on the computer, on the calendar, planner, and on and on. It' just insane even by my standards.

My fifteen year old son who watches my insanity on a daily basis had a suggestion yesterday, "have a seminar of the minds." He said matter of factly. "What?" I asked surprised. "Yeah, that's what I do. I have mind seminars with all the voices in my head." I just looked at him in awe and thought, "Oh! No! You've inherited the voices!!!" He continued, "seminars are great because they are organized and the leader takes control. You are just having random conversations and no one is in charge."

You would think I would be worried about the fact that at fifteen my son is hearing voices and having mind seminars in his own brain, but I wasn't. I was actually listening to what he was saying because he was making sense! How weird is that! Disturbing.

Writing is all about emotions, pure and simple. It's pouring everything you've got into a blank piece of paper and hoping that you strike a cord or several cords with the readers. Not an easy task to transform yourself into other characters and experience their feelings. It's exhausting. I call it Time Traveling. I'll get into that on another blog.

For now, I'm shifting gears and scheduling a Seminar of the Minds. Hopefully, the cement wall will come down, and the emotions will pour out and onto the blank paper striking all the necessary chords creating a beautiful symphony.

Copyright ©Lucy Tamajon 2009

Goldilocks & The Three Bears

Kids are not easy. I don't care how many of these deranged "perfect" moms go on The View or anywhere else and tell us, "how easy it is to parent when you have a plan." You know the crazy-ass soccer moms I'm talking about. With their cute little hair cuts, driving a neat and tidy mini-van, chit chatting about "play dates", and "time outs" as if it was all so perfectly packaged. They sit there and organize their 5-year old lives in perfect little sections and talk about creative scheduling while they squeeze in their semi-annual "me time" collagen injections with their local plastic quack.

We all know them. I personally know a couple of these deranged moms. I hear them talk about the ease of parenthood and how fabulous being a mom is as long as "you've the got a planned schedule". Planned schedule, my ass! I think they've had one botox injection too many and it's gone straight to their brain and killed whatever brain cells they had left to begin with.

Being a mom has got to be the most difficult job in the world and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. You bring home this little life that by the way comes without any training manuals whatsoever. It's a learn as you go project and a life sentence. You are never officially off the job. You get puked on, shitted on, cried at, yelled at, food thrown at, smacked in the head with waffle blocks, and scared out of your wits end on an ongoing basis just because. You lose whatever shred of sanity you have left and all capacities of ever sleeping a full night again. Ever.

I was blessed with the Drama Queen. There was drama about everything. "I'm thirsty. I'm hungry. I want a coloring book" Everything was done whining and with dramatics, a full show was to be had so take a seat and relax.

Then there was the Interrogator. The interrogator needed to know the "why" to everything. Questioned it all. Curiosity made this child take everything apart and leave it in pieces. The answering machine, the VCR, the computers. For awhile I thought he would grow up to be a pathologist. Oh, yes and he loved to put "hats" on his head, usually a pot or a pan from the cub bard.

And, lastly the Fearless Explorer. The Fearless Explorer crawled and climbed over everything. At ten months old, he knocked over the play pen and broke out of the joint. I was not aware of this escape plan as there were a house full other little monsters running in and out wanting snacks, water, and screaming at the top of their lungs. Suddenly, I tripped over what I thought was another toy but was horrified to see it was my ten-month youngest terror sitting in the middle of the living room with a wicked smile on his face. "Yeah, I broke out of that joint lady. You can't keep me in."

My mother called once in the middle of one of these fabulous "planned scheduled" play days, and I was out on the couch. The Interrogator answered the phone. I can only guess she asked where I was like maybe she thought I was down at SoBe with a hot guy and a mojito. Where else would I be! I heard the Interrogator say, "She's dead on the couch. We killed her." Enter the Drama Queen, "Dead! Oh my God! No!" To which the Fearless Explorer proceeded to poke me in the eye with his finger to make sure I was still alive. "Na. Na. Mommy is still alive."

I crack up when I see all of these crazy silly women reading books on how to be a "mom" and setting up schedules and planning these "perfect" play dates and such. Maybe it's me. I'm so screwed up in the head that I just couldn't even do that right.


Lucy Tamajon
Writer