Wednesday, July 13, 2022

Imperfection Anyways

I wrote in my memoir about how different the reality of life can be to our vision for it. I still chuckle (and sometimes cry) at how very true the discrepancy can be. 

Teddy is in the heart of a busy summer baseball season and last night's game took us to Worcester State. It's not a terrible ride -- about an hour and 15 minutes -- and Brian was more than willing to go. But I had a vision. Since I'll be missing Teddy's Thursday night game for dinner with some dear friends, I would catch up with him (assuage my mom guilt), and drive him to Worcester State. We would chat in the car about how he's doing, he would tell me all about being a camp counselor this week, and we would discuss his excitement and fears for his upcoming first year of high school. I even had some questions I wanted to ask as I churn an idea in my head for something I want to write about habits for academic success. Not that I was going to interview my own son, but kind of, I was. 

I was all packed up with things to read in the hour his team warmed up, and had my dinner in hand. Brian had packed a cooler for Teddy, and the gas tank was full. This was going to be great. A summer night with my son, oh, and his gregarious friend, who took the back seat. I was happy; these two are fun to be around. 

As we got in the car, I watched them insert earbuds. Oh. Ok. Then I noticed Teddy had left the cooler of his water and dinner in the middle of the driveway. 

When we got in the car (again), Teddy and his friend positioned themselves for a nap. 

"Oh, you're not going to talk to me?" I asked. 

"We can talk on the way home," Teddy told me with his charming smile. Well, then. I fired up the Waze and my podcast about writing, and off we went. Teddy woke up when we were almost there and his friend chose his music over my podcast (how?!). Solid bonding time was had by all. Vision versus reality. 

*  *  *

I have been writing; I promise. I even found my protagonist's voice, which feels like finding treasure. Her name is Nomzamo, and I have loved her for a long time, even before she had come close enough to be fully in focus. But she's coming closer, and she's fascinating. 

I have followed my commitment to write from 6:30 - 8 a.m. every morning and not broken it once. I have also kept my commitment to read 60 minutes a day, although that time has been much more scattered and I should probably tighten it up a bit. 

I've also realized that despite all of the reading and research I have done for this book over the last 20+ years, I have so much more to do. This morning I outlined the 20 pages of the book that I need to write to meet my first deadline of July 31. I made a chart -- basically 4 pages at a time for 5 sections -- and added a column for the research I will need to do to complete each section. I have a plan, at least for the road immediately ahead of me; it's like I've set the Waze for my writing. 

In one of the writing podcasts I listened to the other day, the writer quoted someone who said that starting to write is so hard because it means that you have to sit down to the bar of self-judgment. He went on to explain that every idea is perfect until you start to write it. When you start to write it, it's no longer perfect, and sitting down to write is so hard because we all hate to see perfection turn to imperfection. Yes. Yes. Yes. 

I realized last night that my visions for parenting, and life really, are much like my ideas for writing: they are perfect until they actually become real. Then they are wildly imperfect and the sunny summer evening turns into a lightening storm, the game ends early, and my son is mad at me because the fresh sandwich we packed for him isn't as delicious as a burrito from Chipotle. Then we drive home. I spend the first part of hour listening to music and when it's clear Teddy doesn't have much to say, I call my sister and we talk about books. Just about 10 minutes away from home, Teddy starts to talk to me. Not about much, but it's something. I'm grateful for it because I really do love him so. And he's 14, so I guess talking to his mother isn't all that thrilling. His loss. Ha! 

Writing is so beautiful and so damn hard because, like life, it is a constant reminder that even on the very best of days, imperfection is inevitable and visions are never reality. And that's okay. I'll live it, and write it, anyways. 

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