The Pact

Four years ago, I made a pact with my mom: The two of us would finally get off our butts and write. Both of us had put it off for too long and it was time to stop thinking about it and start doing it. The timing was perfect. She was turning 65 and I was turning 40 - good milestone years. We decided that we would start February 1st, on her birthday, and each of us would write and encourage the other. A writing group of two.

I took the day off of work and drove up to Kettle Falls on that first day of February, armed with paper and pencils, coffee and dessert, and a mind on fire with a story to write. We sat and talked, exchanged ideas. We were feeding off each other's energy and I'm not going to lie, I was exhausted by the end of the day. But it was a good, satisfied kind of exhausted.

Each of us got off to a great start, but like many things that we start with our fires blazing, it burns hot for a while and then peters out. Both of us got discouraged for different reasons, both of us had things blocking us, both internal and external. Mom ended up writing a small book, made up of mini stories from her childhood. She had it printed at the local copy shop and gave a copy to each of her loved ones for Christmas that year, which was received with "mixed reviews". I was proud of her for finishing, proud of her for putting it out there. It's not an easy thing to do. I think she mostly just wanted people to understand her. And really, don't we all want that at times?

My story gained some ground, the beginning of a novel that made a hard left to the ridiculous. I shelved it, so to speak. That was novel number 2 that was started and not finished. Number three came a few months later and was less of a start than it's predecessors. The age old issue of family/work life balance won out over this solitary activity so I stopped. And just like that, I broke our pact.

Mom was never upset, she totally got me. She said that she knew I'd write someday, when I was ready. She said that she didn't care if I ever got published, as long as I was doing what I loved. She's cool that way. When I started laying down words this last April, little bits here and there, she was really excited. She was really excited that I started this novel. This is the first time that I didn't feed her bits or let her read any of it. I wanted to wait until it was done. One of the last conversations we had was about this book. She was asking me when she was ever going to get to read any of it. And for that matter, when was she going to get to find out what happened in the first novel that I had started so long ago. One thing that bums me out is that she's not going to get to read any of what I write anymore. And if, by chance anything I write ever becomes published, I'm not going to get to call her. I actually pictured that in my head. The screaming, the jumping up and down.

Today's her birthday. I'm not going to lie, I'm feeling it today. My loss of her. Ever since the day of that pact, I've taken a day off at our birthdays and drove up to Kettle Falls to spend the day deep in conversation, laughter and tears. This week has been hard. I knew her birthday was coming, but I thought I could breeze through it.

Not so much.

After the third time of stopping myself from crying at work - which is an awful place to cry - I decided to throw in the towel. I could have stuffed it in again, could have gotten myself lost in spreadsheets for another few hours. But really? Maybe stuffing again and again is not the best solution. I decided I would indulge and let myself feel what was coming to the surface this time. I respectfully asked to take the rest of the day off and headed up to mom's house. I should have known this was coming, but I guess a half day spent at mom's is better than none.

I picked up a sub, a gorgeous bag of plain Lay's potato chips, and a single serving of mom's favorite birthday dessert - strawberry shortcake. I sat in her living room, eating my sub and smacking on my chips. Those Lay's are my stress food. If I'm feeling sad or stressed, I turn to Lay's. Not alcohol, not tobacco, it's all about the Lay's. Anyway, the conversation was extremely one-sided so I spent the afternoon looking through her photo albums and memory books. Unfortunately, the strawberry shortcake was super gross, so that was tossed. Sorry Mom.

I know I'm rambling on this post, but the truth is this: I simply miss her. And our birthdays for the last four years have been spent together, spurred on by the common desire to write. I wish I could say that I had that burning desire to work on my novel, but honestly? I'm feeling bummed. I'm not doubting I will finish, I absolutely know that I will not abandon yet another novel, especially when I am so far in, but I feel like I'm running in mud here. I'm sure so much of this has to do with just dealing with mom's passing. And it's winter. Blue skies and warm skin is a scarce commodity these days. I wish I could just turn that fire in me on, like the one in mom's living room today. Flip the switch and the orange and yellow flames ignite and capture your attention. Maybe that switch is coming. Or maybe it's something that I will simply have to keep tossing on logs and kindling. I don't know. But, one thing I do know, I'm glad I let myself feel today. There can never be healing unless you feel first.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you!