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I am Writer, See Me…Shop
By Virginia Williams
My writing career thus far can be best summed up by my four-year-old daughter’s
answer to the following question of the day at preschool: “What do your mommy
and daddy do at work?”
My beloved pint-sized smart aleck replied: “Daddy has a new job and Mommy buys
me Barbie stuff.”
Apparently all of the time I devote to reading, researching, and writing can
best be summed up in two words: Mommy shops.
I realize that, at the age of four, my daughter’s world revolves around all
things pink and Barbie. I didn’t expect her to give a full dissertation of her
mother’s career aspirations to the rest of the class during circle time, but I
hoped for something better than the image of me, wallet at the ready, in a toy
store. But I also realize that the kid has a point: when I don’t want to write,
I shop. (Okay, I admit to procrastinating by eating and napping, too, but that’s
another essay entirely.)
I actually sometimes think my daughter is a more prolific writer than I am.
Whenever I write in my journal, Charlotte pulls out her pretty little pink
Cinderella notebook and pink pen topped with a heart, feathery frills, and pink
ribbons, and begins to do her “work,” too. She’s even been known to work late
into the night, telling me she has to finish her homework in bed because “I have
a very busy day at work tomorrow.” Charlotte adds to my journal with her own
careful hieroglyphics, ripping precious pages from the Cinderella book for me,
“to help you with your book, Mommy.” Her page count at the moment exceeds mine
by three to one.
And when I sit at my computer and wait for brilliant words to appear, Charlotte
insists on helping me. “Let’s do pink typing,” she exclaims. I dutifully allow
her to change the font color to pink, and she happily taps away at a rate of
speed I will never achieve in my lifetime.
She takes it all quite seriously, this concept of writing as work, though she
has no clue that Mommy actually-- sometimes-- makes money by writing. As far as
she is concerned, the fruits of my labor all lead to one place: the mall. But
what else could a small child assume when she frequently gets into the car after
preschool and finds I have brought her a “prize”-- some new princess underwear,
a Cinderella bathing suit, or some other frilly pink doodad. I don’t exactly get
in the car and wave my latest essay under her nose and say, “Look what Mommy
wrote today!” Like women all over the world, I relate to my daughter by buying
her things.
When Charlotte talks to my husband on the phone during one of his frequent
business trips, she knows enough to ask him how his work is going. Me? When I
pick her up from preschool, there are two usual questions: “You have a prize for
me?” and “You have a snack for me?” Okay, so the majority of publishers and
agents haven’t discovered my writing skills yet, but my daughter has discovered
the real secret to Mommy’s job: my wallet.
And daily, when I drop her off at school, she gives me instructions. “Mommy, you
keep my babies next to you when you work today, so you don’t get lonely.” Or,
“Listen to my princess music; it will help you with your work.” Of course, she
also orders me around: “Clean up my jewelry in my room and put it away. That
will make it happy.” So I am my daughter’s very own personal shopper and slave.
In her grown-up years, she’s not going to remember me sitting in front of my
computer, typing away; she’s going to think of me shopping and tidying her room.
At least parenting has given me material for my writing. Lots of material. I
sometimes wonder what I wrote about before I became a parent. I mean, it was all
so easy, pre-child. No diapers, no potties, no snacks, no play dates. No
adorable little girl who thinks her Mommy’s purpose in life is to buy Barbies.
But perhaps it’s time now to re-think my writing goals and explain to my
daughter what it is I really do all day. Still, I’m doomed. If I tell Charlotte
that Mommy writes things people read, and gets paid for it, she’ll only think,
“Buy more Barbie stuff!” There’s no way around it. Hmm, skip the paycheck, I
wonder if there’s a writing gig that pays in new Barbies?
Virginia Williams shops in Ohio and has sometimes been known to write book
reviews, parenting essays, and travel articles and do the odd proofreading job.
Her daughter’s Barbie collection numbers five Barbies, one Ken, and far too many
annoying little pairs of shoes.
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