Catherine Egan's Blog - Posts Tagged "nescbwi13"
On conferences and having space to think a thought or two
Dear Blog,
So on Friday morning, I sat on the porch and waved goodbye to LittleJ and LittleK heading off to the park on their bikes with That Guy. They disappeared around the corner and I kept on sitting there in the sun with my suitcase. Then a taxi arrived and I did that thing I so rarely do: I stepped out of my life.
I read a book on the train. I slept in a big hotel bed for two nights. I couldn’t figure out how to close the curtains or stop the air-conditioning from blasting and the breakfast was awful but it still felt luxurious. I woke up at dawn, annoyed that I wasn’t able to sleep in, missing the little hands in my hair but also glad to be alone. It seemed the most incredible kind of leisure, to turn on the light and read a bit before getting up.
I was in Springfield MA, which, without wishing to offend the inhabitants of that town, is not a place I’d ever choose to visit. It was my first time attending the New England SCBWI (Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators!) conference. I lugged my computer and notepad to talks, discussion panels, workshops. I listened to people talk about writing and I thought about writing and actually DID some writing without anybody yelling at me that they wanted milk or a different video or the spinasaurus’s toe is broken please fix it. I met some great people and one of my favourite authors. I think I made a real friend, which is no small feat in my mid-thirties. We had the kind of conversations where you are almost stumbling over your words with things to say and really can’t wait to hear what the other person is going to say next and find everything incredibly funny together and somehow ideas and inspiration and energy feel so easy to come by. I drank wine and chatted about books and writing with other writers and had time to think. That Guy sent me a video of the boys goofing off at supper and I cried because I missed them so much, but I was also glad to be away.
I thought I might come home and write a blog post about how I almost forget who I am or how to be without two little boys attached to me, reaching for their hands as I cross the street; how writing has been the only force in my life powerful enough to pry me away from my children since they were born; or maybe something less self-absorbed about younger children reading books with “mature” content (inspired by the “Edgy YA” discussion panel on Friday night); or about time management, because I attended a very useful seminar on that, the only downside to it being that it was based on the assumption that you have some time to manage. All those things are in my head and I hope to write some conference-inspired blog posts in the coming weeks but I haven’t written any of them down yet.
I stepped out of the taxi back into my life and when they came to hug me I could hear how my voice sounds different when I talk to my children. I slipped back into that other me, the usual me, the everyday me, the me that wants to be a writer but doesn’t really feel like one, not in terms of actual minutes spent thinking like a writer or, you know, writing. It’s OK. Somehow the writing happens; somehow the writer part of me is the one part of whoever I used to be that survived becoming a mother. I never meant for motherhood to swallow me up like this. I didn’t expect it and I don’t know how it happened. I’m sure it is something about my personality, the way I love, or the way I respond to being needed. I know it doesn’t have to be this way, but it is this way right now.
They keep saying I missed you, I missed you, and I say I missed you too, because I did, and today at the park K wraps my hair around his fist and says, “mommy came back” like he thought I might not, and I say of course I did, of course I came back. I pull them to me and hug them, kiss their soft cheeks. I say why don’t you roll down the hill, and so they do, giggling and rolling and getting covered in grass and ending up one on top of the other at the bottom, shouting and laughing. I wave at them, shade my eyes, and think about the book I am going to start rewriting this week while they charge back up the hill at me.
Yours, back in the fray,
Catherine
So on Friday morning, I sat on the porch and waved goodbye to LittleJ and LittleK heading off to the park on their bikes with That Guy. They disappeared around the corner and I kept on sitting there in the sun with my suitcase. Then a taxi arrived and I did that thing I so rarely do: I stepped out of my life.
I read a book on the train. I slept in a big hotel bed for two nights. I couldn’t figure out how to close the curtains or stop the air-conditioning from blasting and the breakfast was awful but it still felt luxurious. I woke up at dawn, annoyed that I wasn’t able to sleep in, missing the little hands in my hair but also glad to be alone. It seemed the most incredible kind of leisure, to turn on the light and read a bit before getting up.
I was in Springfield MA, which, without wishing to offend the inhabitants of that town, is not a place I’d ever choose to visit. It was my first time attending the New England SCBWI (Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators!) conference. I lugged my computer and notepad to talks, discussion panels, workshops. I listened to people talk about writing and I thought about writing and actually DID some writing without anybody yelling at me that they wanted milk or a different video or the spinasaurus’s toe is broken please fix it. I met some great people and one of my favourite authors. I think I made a real friend, which is no small feat in my mid-thirties. We had the kind of conversations where you are almost stumbling over your words with things to say and really can’t wait to hear what the other person is going to say next and find everything incredibly funny together and somehow ideas and inspiration and energy feel so easy to come by. I drank wine and chatted about books and writing with other writers and had time to think. That Guy sent me a video of the boys goofing off at supper and I cried because I missed them so much, but I was also glad to be away.
I thought I might come home and write a blog post about how I almost forget who I am or how to be without two little boys attached to me, reaching for their hands as I cross the street; how writing has been the only force in my life powerful enough to pry me away from my children since they were born; or maybe something less self-absorbed about younger children reading books with “mature” content (inspired by the “Edgy YA” discussion panel on Friday night); or about time management, because I attended a very useful seminar on that, the only downside to it being that it was based on the assumption that you have some time to manage. All those things are in my head and I hope to write some conference-inspired blog posts in the coming weeks but I haven’t written any of them down yet.
I stepped out of the taxi back into my life and when they came to hug me I could hear how my voice sounds different when I talk to my children. I slipped back into that other me, the usual me, the everyday me, the me that wants to be a writer but doesn’t really feel like one, not in terms of actual minutes spent thinking like a writer or, you know, writing. It’s OK. Somehow the writing happens; somehow the writer part of me is the one part of whoever I used to be that survived becoming a mother. I never meant for motherhood to swallow me up like this. I didn’t expect it and I don’t know how it happened. I’m sure it is something about my personality, the way I love, or the way I respond to being needed. I know it doesn’t have to be this way, but it is this way right now.
They keep saying I missed you, I missed you, and I say I missed you too, because I did, and today at the park K wraps my hair around his fist and says, “mommy came back” like he thought I might not, and I say of course I did, of course I came back. I pull them to me and hug them, kiss their soft cheeks. I say why don’t you roll down the hill, and so they do, giggling and rolling and getting covered in grass and ending up one on top of the other at the bottom, shouting and laughing. I wave at them, shade my eyes, and think about the book I am going to start rewriting this week while they charge back up the hill at me.
Yours, back in the fray,
Catherine
