When you become a parent, you instantly love your baby more than yourself, or any other person or thing – or even any dream. Yet while you gain a new identity, you also remain who you always were before you began changing diapers and sitting on the floor making a dolly talk for someone else’s entertainment. I've always loved to write.
Currently, I face obstacles. I don't want to write about food in the same way that I used to. I, like most people, love food, but don’t you think it’s become a little cliché as a topic? What else is there to say about it? Everyone’s talking about their preference for local, seasonal, and organic – as if it were a new idea, or as if they're more virtuous for having chosen it (never mind that it isn't an option for many). We've described it in every term imaginable. I no longer want to read about plump, juicy, deeply red heirloom tomatoes with just the right balance of sweetness and acidity. I want to read about the tomatoes the more down-to-earth among us experience. The ones my kid bit into – then promptly spit out – so that its slippery seeds lodged themselves into hard-to-reach crannies of the high chair. Oh, and it wasn’t even a great tomato. It was slightly green, probably loaded with pesticides, and came from a hothouse in Florida. But hey, it still tastes good on toast with a little mayo and a sprinkle of salt.
If I didn't write about food, I could write about something really nice, a place I’d like to be. Perhaps I could write about a girl who dwells in a little cottage on a rocky cliff overlooking the New England Atlantic. Each morning, she sits at a wooden desk beside a window, and writes and writes over numerous cups of steaming earl gray. When she can’t write anymore, she takes her dog out for a run on the beach below. She picks up pastel-colored seashells along the way, then drops them clinking into a shallow crystal catch-all dish on the foyer table - where they look effortlessly charming. At night, she chops vegetables for a simple soup and goes back to writing with a glass of red wine. Other nights, she prepares a feast and invites friends over. They sip cocktails by the fire and converse long into the night. Before she goes to bed, she braids her hair, puts on a pretty nightgown, and reads a little before dozing off, worry free, in a four-poster bed under a white down comforter. If this were my story, I guess it’d make me a romance novelist. If it feels too perfect to be true, it lacks soul, and there’s little satisfaction in that.
Instead, maybe I’d write about a walk across the parking lot to Target at 7:59a.m. It’s cold, dreary, and misting. I’m carrying my 18-month old daughter on one hip. Her face is crusted with oatmeal. She’s wearing a pink beanie and a puffy jacket. We’re going to get a cappuccino and stroll around under florescent lighting in search of toilet paper and laundry detergent. Getting these items back into our apartment will require two trips up the stairs, since we’ve also brought along a toy baby stroller bearing a white stuffed kitty. By the time we make it back inside, I’ll have just enough energy to deposit the plastic Target bags on our foyer floor, and they, like the seashells in my dream, will also look effortless. You wouldn’t know it, but these early morning walks with Catherine are the happiest part of my day and I relish them.
Aside from the subject matter, yet to be determined, there’s something else to consider. Can I not care what you think? Because in order to write well, I can’t. I’m not sure I’m capable of writing all the stupid things I need to write, in order to get to something halfway decent, with you watching. Wait. What is that you’re saying? I’ve already written lots of stupid things here? Oh, trust me, it gets way stupider. Or then again, maybe it gets better. In the past I’ve written with others’ perceived tastes cluttering up my mind, and the result is something that rings ever so slightly untrue. So the reverse should be an improvement, right?
Do you know the feeling of having suddenly decided it’s worth it? You just know. That you’d rather be skinny than eat ice cream. That you’d rather be alone forever, than stay in your current relationship. That you’d rather be poor, than stay in your current job. That you’d rather be happy than right. That you’d rather be wrong than silent. That you’d rather get lost than keep driving the same boring route every day. That you have defined your priorities, and you know what to do. It feels good, like steering a ship, one you’re qualified to steer, your ship.