Tag Archives: writing

I Rock the Powder Room!

7 Nov

Apparently I rock. In fact I rock so hard that I’ve been given a regular weekly slot on “MomsRock” for In The Powder Room where people talk, share and laugh about what it’s like to be a woman in the 21st century, and where butt naked honesty is absolutely essential.

I’m one of a new kick ass panel of writers. There’s a glitzy PR chick, a heavily tattooed hen-keeper, a domestic slave, a snarky feminist, a woman fighting excessive facial hair, plus several other equally brilliant and creative writers. Meet them all here.

My slots a Thursday so definitely check it out on a Thursday.

Portfolio career? I’m getting there.

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Big Fat Milk Love

16 Oct

During my first 6 months of blogging i’ve read A LOT of posts. Some have made me giggle childishly, others laugh out loud, some have seen me wiping away a few tears, others crying unashamedly into my breakfast muffin. Too many, sadly, have quite bored me to death.

I’ve certainly done a fair bit of scanning, Xing, and unsubscribing in my time, and i no longer feel guilty about it. At first i read everything not wanting to appear like some kind of bloggy Scrooge. Now i’ve realised it’s just part and parcel of it all. What is roast beef to me is dog meat to someone else. Going on the number of readers i’ve lost along the way, i suspect i’m the egg sandwich in some people’s packed commuter train. Of course i’d rather be poached salmon with a dill marinade, but sometimes you just have to accept you’re an egg.

In any case, it is quite rare for a post to move me with any kind of gravitas. However, there are 4 posts in particular that have. Curdled, churned, whipped milk up with their beauty, passion, resonance, or wit. Stuck with me like wet leaves clinging to the wheels of a buggy.

Thinly Spread’s What comes next? was one of the first posts i ever read, and it is still the one that has affected me the most. It sums up in an image everything i hope and dream for with my own boys. The enduring importance of the mother/son bond. An image so at odds with the stereotype of the teenage boy, embarrassed and awkward, ashamed of showing weakness or emotion. The fact that the discussion was around death was even more resonant for me coming so soon after the death after my father. I remember being struck by the balance and sageness of Christine’s words.

At the other end of the spectrum, More than Just a Mother’s story about being stuck in a traffic jam and desparate for the loo is still, probably, the funniest thing i have ever read. You’ll never look at a nappy the same.

Vegemitevix recently floored me with her beautiful post Homeward Bound. She’s at her best with these kinds of descriptive, resonant posts, and this one took me on a journey to the other side of the world. In particular, the description of the plane journey to the South Island of New Zealand so richly and evocatively described. Such an expressive and skillful use of language quite rarely seen, especially amongst us bloggers that tend towards the vernacular.

Then there’s Livi. I don’t think you could ever find anyone more different to me. She is an ardent Conversative, worshipping the ground that Cameron walks on. She believes a woman’s role is domestic, and that men should rule their wives. She’s also quite kinky. I read some of her posts thinking i couldn’t possibly find anyone i have less in common with, whose point of view frequently bewilders me. And then she comes out with a post like Abandoned. The most beautiful, resonant piece of creative writing on bipolar. And then i know why i continue to read her. The love of writing, the emotions, the experience of life, is what unites us. And actually, that’s often enough.

So there you go, read and enjoy. I give you permission to stray. Just make sure you come back, mind.

Writing your heart out

13 Oct

Writing is like carving your ear off, hanging it from the handle of a tube train and hoping that a few hundred faceless commuters will take care of it for you.

It is everything that you feel, think, want, hope for, tattooed onto your face.

It is your naked body nailed to the wall in the middle of a bustling high street.

It is you leaving the door of a public toilet open and sitting, waiting with your pants around your ankles.

It isn’t a job. A hobby. A financial report, sales presentation, marketing strategy or briefing document.

It is you. Proud, honest, fearful, hopeful.

For my wonderful husband.

If you can’t be the best, why bother at all?

8 Jul

This post is inspired by the very smart Petajo.

Sometimes i feel like i’m drowning in a sea of bloggers. A limpet vying for space on a shell already full up.

“I’m really enjoying your blog. You should write a book”. Lovely comments repeated occasionally by my non-blogging friends.

Little do they know of the mummy blogging machine churning away. Spewing out its maternal creations overwhelmed with trying to do, and have it all. Desparate to purge themselves of the everyday dichotomy of elation and despair.

All looking for a book deal. Flexible, home working.

I often feel like Petajo’s 435,397th blogging mother.

A needle in a haystack, or a diamond in the rough?

A hardcore perfectionist by nature, i’ve always struggled to reconcile mediocrity. Quite good never being quite enough. Sacking things off when i can’t make the grade. A fight too tired or ill-equipped to win.

At first i shunned blogging, not wanting to be yet another somebody who thought they had something to say. Now frequently disappointed when i see that someone has beaten me to it, and blogged about something only in draft.

Just what can i bring to the mele of mummy machinations that hasn’t already been said a million times? Universals of the human condition so frequently ruminated, argued, yet still unresolved.

I think the real truth is, probably not much. Most of the time.

But one day i might happen to write a post that does say something different, or in a slightly different way, or at a unique time that raises it above the mele and makes it resonate.

Helps even one person in some small way to get through that day. To laugh. Cry. Have a new idea, or nod their heads in agreement.

I suppose its those moments you wait for.