Writing Books

There is this thick floating need in our house currently to write books.  Tyler and I are both working on books-- his mostly words-- mine mostly pictures.  His in contract negotiations, mine in the early phases of dream-translated into lines and hues.  
But books is what it's all about here.  It's what we talk about over whiskey and wine.  And in the quiet moments it's what we both sit and stew about.   It's my third child, my book, and it's such an unpredictable slippery soul; I'm constantly worried about losing sight of it in the mess of a long busy day, lost in the crowd of daily life; it's running through this street fair and I can hardly keep up as I'm pulled back and stuck behind other facets of life.  

It's a struggle.  It's nearly unbearable some days.   But it's so intensely worth it to feel as though you are creating something from nothing.  A world of ideas and images contained and organized into one beautiful slot on the shelf.  It's very much a labor of love.

Anyway--  Books are big.  But I think I hadn't realized the extent of our obsession, and how much it has permeated into our family life... until yesterday.  
Yesterday morning, my 6 year old climbed into bed with us and started railing off the details of this crazy dream she had just had.   Unicorns, rainbows, magic keys, treasure chests, a sky of chocolates and cotton candy...  it went on and on.   (I then proceeded to tell her my magnificently boring dream about wandering around for hours trying to find where I had parked my car).  Some days I wish I could be 6 again....
But anyway--
She then resolutely decided to spend the entire rest of the day (so, from 8am until bedtime) writing and illustrating a 15 page book about her dream.  

I am not kidding.   I have never been so impressed by anyone ever in my entire life.  
There are so many people I know, (myself included) who spend so much of their days whining about things they want to accomplish, but for whatever reason just don't get it done.   It's incredibly inspirational to see someone, especially your own child, just sit down and dedicate an entire day to getting something done from start to finish.  
She wanted to write and illustrate a book, and so she did.
And that was that.

Sometimes we realize how much our kids our like us--  and then sometimes we realize how much we wish we could be more like our kids.   I think kids glom onto the best and worsts parts of us, and then magnify those parts.  It's scary, and also incredibly humbling, awe inspiring, all that jazz.  I love my little writer so much.  She makes me want to make my dreams come true, and in a way she's showing me how to do it.  

 
 

August

Our home in August-- 

is two sun-kissed girls.  Running, chasing, tumbling bare-footed around the living room and kitchen, the dining room a mess with potato-head parts and markers.  The baby won't keep her clothes on; snaps and zippers, snaps and zippers.    Endless Casper Baby Pants, Beatles songs, Paul Simon, Eva Cassidy-- Violet desperate for the sophistication of Nutcracker season to begin.   

The cats are holding forth in the dry grass, the birds flit about the feeder getting brown and fat; everyone is too lazy to catch or be caught.   We eat popsicles and watch the sun go up and down behind the plum trees.      

The routine of August--

is part frantic activities, part languid dreaming--  Every day we go out into the world after breakfast; skid down the hill into the lake for a swim; return library books; buy milk.  My heart has a daily fret about work that needs to be done, projects that are put on hold, as I give in to the temptation
of simply lying on the floor while the baby climbs over me again and again laughing and drinking from a milk cup.   

And yet... 

My work in August--

has hit a steady rhythm, and I am hopeful that momentum is building.     

It helps that I finally finished unpacking my workroom after a year and a half of bumping into boxes; it's getting so civilized down there with jars of pencils, a stapler, sketches for clients finally organized in a binder, drawers of paint and paper, a space for my computer.   

In spite of everything, I am managing to find nearly two hours every day to work.   It's like yoga for my mind; or maybe a little like mineral water; or maybe like wine.  It's like sleep and mountain air all wrapped up into one incredibly rejuvenating potion.    This mama needs to work... especially in August when the days are long and the games of Uno endless.   

We're looking toward September, and eager for the apples to arrive.  In the meantime, we are enjoying our home like we never have before, trying not to get too restless during the heat of the day, with cool evenings in the garden, purple dahlias, snail friends, thunderstorms-- all set to the tune of the neighbor kid's trombone playing squashy scales that float around the street in the pink night air.