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http://apalessandri.wordpress.com/

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It's a Writer's Life for Me

In the lull between semesters, as I scurry to get the grades in for one semester and the courses set up for the next, I find myself wanting to wedge between responsibility and whim. After all, what's paying the bills is my teaching, not my writing.

But in that lull (a word which, really, is ironic as it's applied to that space in time between semesters that's neither here nor there), as it often happens when I'm overwhelmed or ecstatic or sorrowful or angry, I am consumed with the need to write. Any emotion that courses through me becomes a flame igniting the desire and need to put into words said emotions - either in the form of characters in a story, a personal essay, a poem, or just some scribbles somewhere.

I've often contemplated what a "writer's life" means. Does it mean, as the romanticized version leads us to believe, that one must sequester oneself from the world, live in misery and abuse, contemplate suicide, and skirt the borders of sanity? Does it mean that a wife and mother with a day job can't live the writer's life? Absolutely not! A writer's life means the dedication and commitment to keep pursuing that passion of words that brings about a flurry of emotions to oneself and one's readers. It means carving out some time of one's busy schedule (and we all know our schedules are busy) to read and write and learn. Because a writer's life is one of constant sacrifice and discovery.

I'm leading a writer's life by writing every day as much as I can. By giving life to characters and stories, either made up or real, and by discovering and rediscovering who I am in relation to those characters of my past and present. I'm navigating through this uncertain territory of writing and publication, redefining who I am, and learning that there's more than one way of having a writer's life. Though some aspects of a writer's life might be ideal (as in weeks or months of solitude to only write), the ideal is what we make of it. I take the minutes and hours I can get - in between naps, a night's stay at grandma's, a day out with daddy, some hours at Starbucks - and make a writer's life out of it.

Self-Satisfaction

Today during dinner, my husband, son, and I sat, eating an array of leftovers that consisted of rice, spaghetti, carrots, pan-fried tilapia, eggs, teriyaki chicken, and salad. We sat, said our prayers, and began chatting about our day. Mid-way through the meal, the conversation went something like this:

"I don't like salad," my son says.

"That's okay," I reply.  "I like it. Do you know what I like about it?"

My son shakes his head.

"The colors." And he proceeds to name the colors in my salad with me.

Daddy chimes in and says, "Carrots are good for you, baby. They give you super vision, like Superman."

"I don't want to be Superman," my son says.

"Then how about Spiderman? Spiderman eats salad to make him strong."

My son shakes his head. "I don't want to be Spiderman."

"Then, who do you want to be?" I ask.

"No one," he replies. "I just want to be Lukas."

My husband and I were caught off guard by the innocent, yet profound statement uttered by my almost-four-year-old.

We spend our lives looking up to and wanting to be others. We look up to role models, and work our behinds off so we can achieve the sliver of fame or recognition or status that we want, because we want to be like someone else. We want money because we want to be like those who are well off. We want those shoes because they're the latest fashion and all the "cool people" have those shoes - and we want to be one of those "cool people." We want that car because it says something about a status that we may or may not have. (And by the way, the "we" refers to us as humans, the general population, you, me, the guy in the corner, the girl at the mall. It means everyone.)

Sometimes, we believe we're happy with who we are and, at times, we are. We like ourselves. But there are other times, and more than once, like during a mid-life crisis, when we just want to be someone else or we want what someone else has. We let ourselves be influenced by this and it clouds our judgement, our actions, our behaviors.

Lukas is on to something. "I just want to be me." With imperfections and character flaws. I hope I can remember this next time I want to change something about me so I can be like someone else.

POV Exercise - Dianita

Do you remember what I looked like when I married you, Mario? I was Diana Carolina Restrepo, slender, beautiful, wild. You liked me because I wasn’t as India as the other girls you slept around with. You could see the Spanish in me, you said. The light skin, which I hated, you loved. You would tell me I was tu reina.

But what did that get me? I fell for you, Mario. I left Jaime, who really loved me, for your promises of a good and rich life. Yes, you gave me two kids who I would sacrifice everything for. But you also took them away from me. The allure of the drug cartel was too much for you and dragged you away from the cafetales. It was more money than you could’ve ever imagined and it came easily. All you had to do was smuggle, lie, and kill.

You couldn’t kill me, though, not literally. You lied and snuck me out to protect me and our kids. At least I know you did love us in your own way, though I know you did it because it would’ve been much harder to explain the blood on your hands to them if you’d killed me. You don’t have to explain it to me. I know.

I want to hate you. I want to kill you sometimes, too. But I don’t have the connections you do, unfortunately.

Instead, I’m in exile here. I’ve aged; I see the wrinkles and the circles under my eyes. I saw them a few days after I got here, ten years ago. I’m lucky if I can keep a job because times are tough. But what do you know about honest work and tough times, Mario? I wonder if you’d recognize me; if I snuck back home, would you know it was me? Would they? If we were still together, if none of this had ever happened, you’d probably have already left me, or at least found a younger girl to satisfy you because that’s just the way you were. I should’ve known that, listened to Jaime when he tried to warn me that you were trouble, but I didn’t listen. I never did until you told me to leave, or the kids would get it. We’d all get it. Then I finally listened.

I’m tired now. Tired of the crap, tired of the exile, tired of missing my kids. I don’t miss you, Mario. Not at all. It was a sad realization that the only good that came out of us, was them. Sofia and David. You could go to hell, for all I care! I just want my kids back; I want them to know what really happened, that I didn’t leave, I was forced to leave. I sacrificed my happiness for their lives. That says a hell of a lot more than what you did for us.