So it begins...

Okay, so I am new to the whole blog world. I have never blogged before. Never followed a blog. Not particularly fond of the word "blog," in general, nor of the self-serving cyber-world in which one gets lost in themselves. However, after seeing a friend's internet journal about her life's work in food, I became inspired to get back on the proverbial horse and write again. The "again," of course, being the exaggerated term to describe the writing I have done in the past.

In my wild, artsy pre-married life, before I had a mortgage, a baby and enough chores to keep my legs in constant motion, I once pursued life as a writer. To be honest, in that time, my focus was more in pursuing my artwork (paintings and such)...but, even though the art was flashier, the writing was always a fond friend, waiting ever quietly in the background for my return. Throughout my life, it has always been something that I have come back to. My first true love.

I have wanted to be a writer since I was eight years old. And, in my life, I have had a few small pieces published. Nothing major. Some poetry in literary journals. Big deal. No one reads poetry. I admit now, I loathe poetry. I only tried to get that work published because of the ease with which it can be done. My first sell-out. As for the other essays, short stories and articles that were published, most of them remained in obscure postings and random nooks of, again, literary journals. Most readers never saw them or even knew where to find them. Limited printings and even more limited interest made way for these dusty archives to be all but forgotten. Oh well. If I could remember where they were printed, I would have the gumption to look them up; but, no matter. At this point in my life, I have taken to the Buddhist way of thought about attachment and the struggles it causes. I prefer, as the Buddhist monks do, to let go and release those things into the universe for better care.

Of course, I want to note, the one thing that was published in my name which had a larger audience was an article about my struggles with anorexia as a teen. The article was published in Twist Magazine, a magazine that actually saw the light of day in commercial stands at a store near you! I remember being in the Wal-Mart, opening the magazine, and seeing my story (and picture...yikes!) in full color on the glossy pages of the magazine. I couldn't wait to get it home and read my words. Yes, narcissism is a grand thing, indeed! However, I was a little disappointed when I did read the piece (which was "co-authored" by the editor of the publication). My words, the words that I had so carefully labored over, had been contorted and "twisted," shall we say, to fit a tween dialogue. There were so many prepubescent words ("like, oh my god!") that it was almost unreadable to me. Don't get me wrong: the editor was kind, the photo shoot had been amazing - it was truly an experience of a lifetime. But, that one little hang-up over the most important part - my words - made me a little disenchanted about the literary world, as a whole.

So, I wrote less. I painted more. But, neither avenue really panned out in the end. My eventual "failure" of not being about to make a comfortable living by selling my art didn't help my overall confidence. Nor did countless rejections in either the literary or art worlds. So, I did the sensible thing. I slunk into a part-time job that would grow to become a full-time job. I became reborn into the white walls of corporate America. I started earning regular pay-checks, paying taxes, buying groceries and gas like an adult, eating Ramen noodles less, nodding and bowing subserviently at my 9-5 overlords, fighting traffic, ironing shirts, waking to an alarm clock, doing these things in perfect formation five days a week, every week, all the time. And then, just like that, it all stopped.

My daughter was born over two years ago. I tried to go back to work part-time after her birth, but it just didn't seem to matter anymore. Not that it ever really did. But now, it mattered even less. To say that staying home with a baby is the hardest job in the world would be an understatement! It is bootcamp every single day, twenty four hours a day. No rest for the weary. Especially not for the breastfeeding mother (as I was). Yes, again I had been reborn from artist/writer, to corporate sell-out, to wife/mother/homemaker in only the short time span of a decade. And, in the process, with my head spinning, I have only recently gotten time to reflect on all of these changes and think about what it is that I want from it.

What do I want? Well, quite simply, I want a voice. Everyone else seems to have one, after all. The gallery owners and editors who rejected my work had a voice - a clear and discouraging voice. My old bosses all had voices; loud and commanding, for sure. My husband has a voice. My baby has a voice; hers can deafen the masses from miles, when it's her desire. So now, after a long silence, I return. Reborn again. A mother who matters, who desires an outlet and is grateful for her journey. A mother with a rusty pen and a desire to, once again, let the ink flow. Or, more aptly, let whatever it is that controls the flashing cursor of her computer screen to blink.