Summer is supposed to be fun

Just sent my son off to summer school (which we cleverly disguised as "summer camp") this morning. He is no dummy. He cried last night when we told him, and again this morning. He said, "It's going to be filled with dummies. I'm not stupid." Poor guy. He is 6, going into 2nd grade, and has a "non-verbal learning disorder," whatever that means.

What that means is, he has a hard time learning the traditional way. What it means is, he is always going ot be a little different. And now, at 6, that's not cool. Later on, when he's an artist or a forensic pathologist, slicing into dead bodies to find out what happened (his dream job !), different will serve him well.

I have 45 minutes to get ready for art camp. I love, love my art studio, but I wish I could spend the summer with my kids, lounging in our pajamas or hanging out at the lake. Ah well. Passion drives you. I want to have a successful business. I want to make art. I want to teach. But more than that, I want to write poetry.

Then there's the copycats. Two studios in my own town, offering similar stuff. And now one in the next city. It's great to be admired, and it is a free society, but, man, I hate capitalism! I can't figure out if it's pride in what I created (there were no teaching children's art studios when I started) or if it's jealousy, or fear of someone doing better.

Sometimes I even feel this way about poetry. Sometimes. Not often. But sometimes I look at all the books on store shelves and all the great poems in journals, and I think--why bother.

Perhaps this is a creative dilemma faced by all artists. Who knows?

All I know is, it feels good to let it all out. Maybe know I can get back to the business of poetry. And art. It's been too long.

Silver lining. Glass half-full. I've only not been writing for about two weeks. And even then, I've written two or three poems. I just haven't edited or sent anything out. I have been reading though!

Goal for the week: 2 new art lessons; type 3 new poems from old journals; send out poems to 1 pub; make an artist trading card.

Maybe I'll use the blog as my artist way/morning pages. Lose the funk. Get the art party crunk.

Anyone else having summer doldrums?

All tied up

Welcome to my blog. Let me introduce myself. I am skull-dried-in-sun-tied-with-a-net, formerly jillypoet-mom-trying-to-write. Have you ever tried to write while on vacation with two children under 6 years of age? At one point, I was in the company of four children 6-years and under. And at all times I had either my husband or my father, or two husbands (one mine, one someone else's...now there's a writing prompt), so in essence, I was surrounded by idea-sapping vacationing children. Children of all ages. Fodder for writing for sure, but not, at least, for this mom, the ideal writing situation.

OK. Is there an ideal writing situation? Virginia Woolf said women needed a room of their own in which to write. At the time, in my free-wheeling, flip-flopping 20s, I whole-heartedly agreed, but just because it was the feminist thing to do. Now, in my flip-flopping (still with the flip-flops), child-rearing 30s, I want to wrestle the stones from Virginia's pockets, drag her from the surf and hug her for this so accurate assertion. A room of one's own. And not a room with laundry waiting to be put away, or a two-year-old sleeping in your bed, or a five-year-old waiting for you to lie down with him. I love my children. But, I need a room of my own.

Summer is just about over. It is making my heart hurt. Today I thought about sending my son off to first grade and I worried that he might not know anyone. And my heart hurt. Yes. Hurt. I know, I know, use the pain, write a poem.

Can someone tell me when? When will the voices in my livingroom and my kitchen and my bathroom and my SUV STOP? OK. I will just wait for the space to breathe.

Maybe it is not my children (whom I really really love!), but my bad, too-short haircut that is sapping my muse. My pal Polkadot Witch just got a shorter hair cut and a new color and she feels empowered. Maybe I'm looking at this all wrong.

OK. I will rest with that thought. I'm looking at it all wrong. I'll sleep on it. In my messy bedroom. Unpacked suitcase, unpacked laundry, short hair and all.

I'll get back to you. With a poem. Promise. (I still have my assignments from the previous post!)