Writing Can Be Wacky

WWFT?  What would Freud think?  What did Freud ALWAYS think?

I think this is upside down. 

You never know with  modern art, do you?  The eye of the beholder and all that.  The actual person who painted the art might know which end is up.  Did Jackson Pollock ever flip out in a gallery because one of his paintings was displayed upside down?  How could he tell?  I'll be he cheated a bit and put one little dot right on the bottom of the canvas so he could orient his work properly. 

That's what I would do, if I were a painter.  I would also tell people that they had my work upside down, just to be contrary.  I hear that artists are supposed to be that way, but it's really only the painters and sculptors who get away with that.  Painters and sculptors can fling poop at people, or cut off an ear, and nobody even raises an eyebrow.  It's part of their genius to be whacky and mysterious and unpredictable like that.  They can be eccentric and we love that passion. 

Writers don't get to have all that fun with their audience. Writing is an introverted activity, and involves the painting of a picture in the reader's mind.  I think that is a more difficult task.  A writer can never throw a fit about people reading his book upside down, because that's not how books work.  Maybe a writer might demand that his book be read while hanging upside down, but that's about it.  No one would do that, of course, because it's impossible to read while all the blood rushes to your head.

But writers pour their personalities into their works just as much as a painter does.  It may not be instantly visible as it is in a painting, but by the end of a book, a reader often has strong feelings about what they've just read, and that's a reflection of the passions of the author, as much as it is for a painter.

What do you think? 

Mama Time

Mamakat's prompt:  5.) Share something you miss from before you were a mom. (inspired by Life’s Unexpected Blessings)


I wanted to be a parent, I almost died twice to be a parent, and I do not want to stop being a parent. Zane may not be the "perfect" child, but he's mine, and that's perfect enough. I love my son.

That said, I miss my "Me" time.  As I've mentioned before, I am an introvert.  I have to be alone sometimes, to reflect, to process, to recharge.  Too much stimulation, which for me is being around other people, drains me. I am very inner-focused, and talking with more than one or two people requires an enormous effort on my part. I like people as a general rule, but only in small doses.  I work all day in a profession where interactions with others is necessary, and by the end of most days my tolerance has been sucked right out of me.  The world has jumped on my last nerve, and I just want to go home and hide.

Before I was married, I would go home after work and not speak at all. I was alone, except for my cats, and I didn't have to talk to them.  I would read, or watch television, or just go right to bed if it was a really bad day.  After I got married, it took my husband a bit to understand that I needed some decompression time to myself.  Larry would initially take my silences to mean that I was angry with him about something, and then he would 'pick' at me, trying to get me to tell him what I was mad about.  Those conversations never seemed to end well. 

But now I have a child.  A extroverted child, who wants to tell me about his day,  wants to ask me about dead bugs or snakes, and wants to be where ever I happen to be.  I can't hide in the house for long; he is pretty smart, and he always finds me, because that is what kids do.  If I decide to go for a walk, Zane wants to come as well, and I won't say no because he loves looking at rocks and trees and bugs while we walk. Larry and I also have soccer practices to go to, and PTC meetings, and birthday parties, etc., where I have to mingle and be polite to the other people even though my last ounce of energy expired two hours before. 

When Larry takes Zane on an outing, and I am alone in the house, I often spend the entire time in complete silence, soaking the quiet into my pores and storing it away for later like a solar battery.   No more decompression time for me.  My decompression time is now the five minutes before I fall asleep.  It will have to do.  But that doesn't mean that I don't miss the time that I used to have.

And I also really miss being able to sit and read a book, uninterrupted, for longer than two minutes, while not in the bathroom with the door locked. 

Comfort Zone

Quite a few people out there think that I am antisocial.  That I hate people and don't want them anywhere near me.  Other people, including my husband, think that I am angry or sad, just because I don't constantly smile or talk all the time.  He has a bad habit of following me around, asking me what is wrong every time I blink.

There's nothing wrong.  I'm an introvert. 

An extrovert gets revved up by being around other people.  They seem to feed off of the energy of the crowd, and it peps them up, gets them going, makes them happy.  Extroverts love to be in the thick of the crowd.  Introverts are completely opposite, and get energized through solitude, by being inside their heads. I don't hate people, but being around too many people sucks the energy right out of me. I feel overwhelmed by the stimuli of the crowd and I can't focus.  I can handle being around one or two people that I am comfortable with, but large parties seem to just wear me out both physically and mentally.  And if I'm with someone who talks nonstop, I want to stick forks in my ears.  I would rather be at home, by myself or just with my husband and son.  And that is okay.  I am who I am. 

Except that I am also the mother of an extrovert.  Everywhere he goes, he charms everyone.  Even people known to hate children will smile at my son.  Zane likes to get out and meet the world.  He seems electrified by being around people, full of smiles and stories about Legos.  I love that about him.  I call him our little Good Will Ambassador.   I try to take him places where he can meet new friends and see the world, because he is my son and I want him to be happy.

It is hard on me, however. I'm usually physically exhausted, and mentally I am completely scattered by the time we come home.  I need time to recharge, and I don't always get it.  I barely find my "happy place" in my head when I'm getting yelled at by my husband for not listening to him.  It does make me cranky.  I admit that.  I am not sure how to 'fix' it.  How to explain to your child that you need "quiet time" without hurting their feelings?  I haven't figured that out yet. 

I do spend a lot of time in the bathroom, that hiding place of mothers everywhere.   

Source: videogames.memebase.com via Tina on Pinterest