“Don’t ask yourself what the world needs; ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” ~Howard Thurman
a state of equilibrium or equipoise; equal distribution of weight, amount, etc.
I don’t have it, I’m never gonna get it, and I no longer want it.
I know mothers who have it all. They are beautiful, thin, popular, and happy. They have nice houses and bake cupcakes in rainbow colors. They undertake projects that would make Martha Stewart blush. They arrange play dates and act as community organizers. They have good hair and buy organic and vacation in places with beautiful blue water.
1. They are insane.
2. I call bullshit.
I sat in the audience yesterday at a conference listening to Laurie Halse Anderson, author of Speak, talk about being a writer. She talked about writing and life and anger and childhood and teaching and being yourself. She said,
“Speak the truth, even if it makes your voice shake.”
I had a revelation when I was listening to her. I don’t want balance. I want passion.
Heather Sellers writers:
“Successful book writers are very rarely also: history society presidents, garden club secretaries, book group members, rumba instructors, feng shui consultants, yoga experts, and leaders of the town’s spring clean-up committee. When you’re writing a book, you do not have time for: meetings, grant writing, sonnet competitions , sprawling vacations, breeding dogs, or renovating the bathroom.” ~from Chapter after Chapter
The subtitle of this is “Balancing Writing and Motherhood,” but who the hell am I kidding?
The only thing I balance is a plate of cheese and crackers as I ignore cobwebs and crying babies and go upstairs to sit at my computer and write.
The only thing I balance are teetering stacks of ungraded papers on top of books about how to write and novels I love to read and wish I could write.
The only thing I balance is a baby on one hip while I turn up the volume on Yo Gabba Gabba, stir the soup, dodge Legos, step on Cheerios, pour juice for my toddler, and pour myself another cup of coffee.
If you don’t like my house, my hair, the way I dress, the way I parent, or how I spend my time, frankly, I don’t want to know you.
I’m done with balance.
I’m done with waiting to give myself permission to be the writer and the person I want to be.