One of the things I’m relearning by dissertating is the fine art of writing for the sake of writing. Sometimes nothing comes of it, but more often then not it jump-starts a great session, and by extension, a great section or chapter. It’s so contrary to my nature to write this way, even though it’s the only way I talk; I talk recklessly and I write carefully. It’s hard for me to write a sentence I don’t believe, that’s not exactly right. Every sentence is a little failure that way. Writing academically for me is hard, hard work, occasionally transcendent. But the brass tacks of it are just sitting down and getting it done.
Here is different. It’s somewhere between writing and talking for me. I still feel the old anxiety about getting it just right, but because I don’t anticipate being judged by colleagues I can let go a little more. Sometimes I do stay away for fear of saying the wrong thing or saying the right thing badly (like I almost wrote “wrongly” and even though it would have made for neat parallel structure I couldn’t bring myself to leave it there). I’m back now, and I’m just going to write until something happens. If nothing does, so be it.
Dissertation-wise, I was silent for six months. I wrote my first ten pages in haste in order to have something to include in my fellowship applications. I wrote for the first three weeks of the Snapper’s life and it was hell. He was so needy. He didn’t sleep like babies that young are supposed to, and when he did, I was so busy catching up with my own physical needs (ravenous from nursing around the clock) and his (pumping to keep my supply up) that I didn’t really have time to write. But I had to so I did. When several weeks later I learned I hadn’t received any of the four fellowships I had applied for I felt cheated of all that time I could have been (kind of) relaxing and to the extent that I could, enjoying my newborn baby. The news also came with a new-found low in confidence that stayed with me until about a week ago. In the ensuing months I tried to come back to my work time and time again. I was working hard, true, continuing to read and work through poems. I told myself that I hadn’t read enough to be writing. I read over those initial ten pages and decided to trash them. But two things were happening: 1) I was feeling more out of my league and out of my element than at any other time in my career and 2) I was reading a lot of bigwigs on Modernism and I got too caught up in finding something astounding and groundbreaking in what I was studying. I realize now these two delusions were feeding on one another and all I could do was sink further and further into a state of despair (regarding my academics; I’ve been happily, surprisingly confident in my parenting and even in my body image, which is new for me). Thankfully after an email consultation with my advisor in which myth #2 was swiftly debunked, myth #1 is starting to fall away. And I am writing again. It also helps that my lovely friend Robin and I are giving each other deadlines and assignments. She sends me poems and I send her pages. My fingers are flying off the keyboard. I am not attempting to discover the next shiny soundbite. I am doing good, solid work on a period that’s been neglected. And that’s good enough.
Also I have joined an awesome, incredible group of women. Unlike most other peace organizations I’ve been part of, these women actually get stuff done. They have a great balance between heady dreams and practical action, and I’m learning a lot from them. What’s funny is that my expectations were all turned around when I joined the group. In Pittsburgh the activists I knew were mostly pierced college students; here, they’re middle-aged women. It’s also true of the drum circle I attend twice a month. As far as I know the women my age spent most of their days at the mall. At least this is what I see.
The Snapper is amazing right now. Every month (past four. the first four were grueling) I swear is my favorite month. He is alive, fun, smiling, beside himself all the time. He’s crawling the speed of lightning, pulling up, and starting to cruise. He automatically gravitates toward danger. He tap, tap, taps everything. He laughs at the dogs. He burrows into our necks and pulls at our ears and noses. He smiles and smiles at strangers until they look at him, and then he laughs. I’ve never seen him tire of a tickling session–I always stop before he asks me to. He eats solids like a horse. We can no longer take him to restaurants. Life is too exciting to sit still longer than it takes for our food to arrive. When he’s hungry he crawls over to me, whimpering, and climbs up my leg. He still does not understand that he has to wait for my shirt to come off. He can hold his own bottle.
And now he is awake. 
Welcome back.