I’ve decided to start writing again.
I pop my head up periodically to make that statement and then slink away quietly after a couple weeks of spinning my wheels.
I have the best of intentions but my follow through sucks. There’s an extensive laundry list of why my plan never sticks. I usually blame it on life getting busy and time being short, but really those are just handy excuses to explain my fear of failure.
I let myself put writing aside because after four years of studying all day and working all night I wanted to have a little fun. Then not writing because the status quo and I found other things to fill the time I used to devote to writing. Later on, when I tried to go back I started to second guess myself and fretted that I didn’t have the chops to be a writer. I was so rusty that when I compared my work to that of my colleagues and my friends I was painfully aware of its short comings.
I was held back by doubt.
I told myself that writing would always be there for me when I had the time to devote to it. Nearly ten years later I realize just how effectively I’ve been lying to myself, convincing my vanity that the fault for my lack of output lay in circumstances beyond my control, when really I should have been taking a closer look at myself.
After co-opting a fellow lapsed writer and printing off a copy of HEINLEIN’S RULES FOR WRITING, by way of Robert Sawyer, I’ve made a promise to myself write again.
But I’m going to let myself be a terrible writer first.
I’m going to clear the cobwebs out of my brain and let out a couple of the ideas that are rattling around inside of my thinking meats. And I’m going to finish them. Then, I’m going to forgive myself for writing them so badly.
After which I’m going to pick up my pen (laptop) and try again. I may find that I’m a poor writer, although I’m hoping to at least be able to achieve the dubious status of mediocre.
But the point is I’m going to follow through. And if I suck and fail, well, at least I’ll be able to say I tried. I’m not quite sure how that’s better than deluding myself into thinking I’m a great writer with poor time management skills but it is.
This is something I really want, and I finally realized that fact in time to put the work into it.
Monday, January 9, 2012
A Letter to My Daughter on the Occasion of her Second Birthday
You have a personality now?! When did that happen?
Now granted, you’ve always had a personality, but it seems like every day you add a new range of expression and emotions. After a couple day’s at Nanna and Grandpa’s house you came back armed with a whole slew of new words. Before you used to be Claire the Baby, who did what she wanted and didn’t take shit from anyone. Now you’re Claire the Person, who does what she wants and still won’t take shit from anyone. The only difference is now you’re learning so quickly about what gets you results is that it’s hard to keep one step ahead of you, walking that tricky parental line that’s supposed to be about taking what you need and making it think it’s actually what you want.
Where do I start? There are so many milestones or moments of the past year that I’d love to immortalize, but every time I try to nail one down in my mind it slips away and sort of blurs into a larger, poorly defined memory that I simply call ‘Roo’.
There’s no mistaking that you’re a Mommy’s Girl. Daddy is definitely the runner up prize right now, even less if there happens to be a pet or a visiting family member in the room. You wipe off my kisses, spurn my hugs and angrily demand your mother take care of any and all tasks that involve you. Which is great when she’s in charge of reading stories before bedtime and somewhat less so she gets stuck with the shitty diapers.
I’ve read the books and I know it’s just a phase. And, I try really hard to pretend that it doesn’t bother me when you push me away, but it’s like a little kick or punch to the heart every time. I can see your teenage years now, armed with a whole arsenal of words that hurt the emotional wiliness to use them. That’s going to suck. (It also makes me wish I’d treated my own parents better during some of the more emotional times. But understanding is easier when you’ve got twenty years’ worth of hindsight on the subject).
Your hair is always a mess. Always. The back of your head looks like an angry birds nest all the time. No matter how often we come it out or try some magical hair product on it, it always looks like you’ve spend the last twenty minutes sitting outside in galeforce winds. Your mother used to say it was just because you a newborn and slept on your back, now I don’t think even she has any idea what’s going.
Speaking of which, your mother keeps insisting on cutting your bangs so your hair isn’t in your eyes. I’d prefer to just push your hair back in a clip, but since you can’t stand to have one in your hair cutting it back is just easier. Only your mom apparently can’t cut a straight line to save her life. Of the two times she’s trimmed your bangs this year I had to come in after the fact and fix it up. Not because I’m so kind aesthetical genius, but rather you get so excited whenever your mother is around that I think its hard for you to keep still.
Your memory is amazing. Many months after the fact you remember important details that even grownups would be hard pressed to remember. You recall the names of your great aunt’s lama (Migo and Nefi), the time you fell out of your high chair (bumpa head) and the name of the little girl who went to stopped going to daycare with you nearly a year ago. And yet you’re stunned that ever night is tooth brushing night, like it’s something you’ve never seen before. Talk about selective memory.
You are utterly fearless. Even now as you grow up and the idea of your actions having consequences start to seep in. You’re not afraid of the dark, after 5 minutes you completely lose any sense of stranger danger around new people (double edged sword that one, we’ll have to work on that) you love meeting new kids, new animals, playing around in new situations, jumping in a pool, or a boat or swimming in the lake. When I flip you around on my shoulders or slide with you across the wooden floor you’re always game for another round. “Again!” has been your favourite word for a long time now and is likely to be this way for quite some time to come.
We got to go out West in May to visit family and it was probably the worst family vacation we’ll ever have. At the very least I think it will set the standard for some time to come. We think you got sick in the hospital when you went with Mommy to see your cousin Ayla be born. The end result was a diarrhea and stomach bug that laid you (and everyone you came in contact with) out for a couple weeks. All we wanted to do was stay in bed and feel miserable but instead we had to attend family events and generally try to just tough it out. There were a couple bad nights there where you soiled everything you came in contact with and we had to use Great-Grandma’s washing machine at 3 in the morning to clean things up. As a group we were one sorry bunch. The only saving grace was that you were so worn out that you slept almost the entire flight from B.C. back to Ontario.
As always, I love you like the dickens. You’re just old enough now that all the sharp points of the hallucinogenic fever dream of your first crazy year are starting to get smoothed out. It’s less about looking after you these days and more about getting to know who you are. I’m really looking forward to talking and conversing and learning with you in the years ahead. (Not math though, never math, that’s your mother’s forte.) I’m excited to get to know you. And as we enter your terrible twos I’m proud as hell to know that you’re not going to go through life being anyone’s stepping stool.
Love,
Dad
Now granted, you’ve always had a personality, but it seems like every day you add a new range of expression and emotions. After a couple day’s at Nanna and Grandpa’s house you came back armed with a whole slew of new words. Before you used to be Claire the Baby, who did what she wanted and didn’t take shit from anyone. Now you’re Claire the Person, who does what she wants and still won’t take shit from anyone. The only difference is now you’re learning so quickly about what gets you results is that it’s hard to keep one step ahead of you, walking that tricky parental line that’s supposed to be about taking what you need and making it think it’s actually what you want.
Where do I start? There are so many milestones or moments of the past year that I’d love to immortalize, but every time I try to nail one down in my mind it slips away and sort of blurs into a larger, poorly defined memory that I simply call ‘Roo’.
There’s no mistaking that you’re a Mommy’s Girl. Daddy is definitely the runner up prize right now, even less if there happens to be a pet or a visiting family member in the room. You wipe off my kisses, spurn my hugs and angrily demand your mother take care of any and all tasks that involve you. Which is great when she’s in charge of reading stories before bedtime and somewhat less so she gets stuck with the shitty diapers.
I’ve read the books and I know it’s just a phase. And, I try really hard to pretend that it doesn’t bother me when you push me away, but it’s like a little kick or punch to the heart every time. I can see your teenage years now, armed with a whole arsenal of words that hurt the emotional wiliness to use them. That’s going to suck. (It also makes me wish I’d treated my own parents better during some of the more emotional times. But understanding is easier when you’ve got twenty years’ worth of hindsight on the subject).
Your hair is always a mess. Always. The back of your head looks like an angry birds nest all the time. No matter how often we come it out or try some magical hair product on it, it always looks like you’ve spend the last twenty minutes sitting outside in galeforce winds. Your mother used to say it was just because you a newborn and slept on your back, now I don’t think even she has any idea what’s going.
Speaking of which, your mother keeps insisting on cutting your bangs so your hair isn’t in your eyes. I’d prefer to just push your hair back in a clip, but since you can’t stand to have one in your hair cutting it back is just easier. Only your mom apparently can’t cut a straight line to save her life. Of the two times she’s trimmed your bangs this year I had to come in after the fact and fix it up. Not because I’m so kind aesthetical genius, but rather you get so excited whenever your mother is around that I think its hard for you to keep still.
Your memory is amazing. Many months after the fact you remember important details that even grownups would be hard pressed to remember. You recall the names of your great aunt’s lama (Migo and Nefi), the time you fell out of your high chair (bumpa head) and the name of the little girl who went to stopped going to daycare with you nearly a year ago. And yet you’re stunned that ever night is tooth brushing night, like it’s something you’ve never seen before. Talk about selective memory.
You are utterly fearless. Even now as you grow up and the idea of your actions having consequences start to seep in. You’re not afraid of the dark, after 5 minutes you completely lose any sense of stranger danger around new people (double edged sword that one, we’ll have to work on that) you love meeting new kids, new animals, playing around in new situations, jumping in a pool, or a boat or swimming in the lake. When I flip you around on my shoulders or slide with you across the wooden floor you’re always game for another round. “Again!” has been your favourite word for a long time now and is likely to be this way for quite some time to come.
We got to go out West in May to visit family and it was probably the worst family vacation we’ll ever have. At the very least I think it will set the standard for some time to come. We think you got sick in the hospital when you went with Mommy to see your cousin Ayla be born. The end result was a diarrhea and stomach bug that laid you (and everyone you came in contact with) out for a couple weeks. All we wanted to do was stay in bed and feel miserable but instead we had to attend family events and generally try to just tough it out. There were a couple bad nights there where you soiled everything you came in contact with and we had to use Great-Grandma’s washing machine at 3 in the morning to clean things up. As a group we were one sorry bunch. The only saving grace was that you were so worn out that you slept almost the entire flight from B.C. back to Ontario.
As always, I love you like the dickens. You’re just old enough now that all the sharp points of the hallucinogenic fever dream of your first crazy year are starting to get smoothed out. It’s less about looking after you these days and more about getting to know who you are. I’m really looking forward to talking and conversing and learning with you in the years ahead. (Not math though, never math, that’s your mother’s forte.) I’m excited to get to know you. And as we enter your terrible twos I’m proud as hell to know that you’re not going to go through life being anyone’s stepping stool.
Love,
Dad
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