“All first drafts are shit.”

Ernest Hemingway

I am a perfectionist. Full of paralyzing pride. I like to do things well, and right. Quite often, this perfectionism serves me splendidly. There’s nothing wrong with having sky-high standards, right?

Wrong.

Particularly when it comes to writing. As I have mentioned, I am in the process of writing my second novel. And, depending on the moment, my fingers are flying fabulously or I am having a hard time. In these difficult moments, I am getting stalled and stuck and stranded. And I think I know why.

I want exquisite prose and deft dialogue to tumble out of me. I want my ideas to be crisp and spicy, full of authentic and existential bite. I want my story to take shape like a famous statue. Right away.

Ha.

Thankfully, I have a good memory. I recall Life After Yes’s infancy. That famous first draft. It was utter and unequivocal crap, a big clumsy pile of paper riddled with inconsistencies and holes and nonsense. It was embarrassingly bad. But, you know what?

It was also a start. The start.

I shaped that pile of paper, that stream of words, into something better. And then? I shaped that something better into something even tighter. I did this over and over again, working hard, having fun, chipping away, adding, reinventing. And one day? One day, I had something that was okay. And then one day I had something that was good. And one magical day that good thing was really good. And then great. (Hey, I am biased. I wrote the thing.)

It is so helpful for me to remember this. That this writing thing is a process. It is so helpful for me to read Hemingway’s words. And I am not a fan of profanity but I make an exception here because, well, first drafts are shit. They just are. And an important and subtle distinction must be made. That distinction? First drafts are perhaps meant to be shit. This has nothing to do with experience, with rookie-dom. This is the way it should, perhaps must, be every time. Writing a first draft is an inherently messy endeavor; we are spilling shreds of self and story onto page, gathering bits of imagination and invention, collecting ingredients for what might become something wonderful.

But not yet.

So, on this fine Thursday morning, I want to thank Mr. Hemingway for his sage words and reminder to just write and write and write some more. To spew shit. The good kind. There is plenty of time to clean up later.

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• Do you agree with Hemingway that first drafts are meant to be mangled and messy things?
• Are you a perfectionist too? Does this help or hinder you more in your life?
• Do you spend more time writing or editing?
• Do you agree that there is wisdom in Hemingway’s words not just for the writer, but for the person? That, so often in life, we should just stop worrying and act and then edit the drafts of days later?
• Would you be suspicious of someone who claimed her first drafts were marvelous? (I would.)
  

Okay, this is a bit random. But also interesting. (To me.)

Have you ever been to UrbanBaby.com? Well, it’s a message board largely populated by urban parents and discussions chez UB range wildly from the practical (paint color suggestions, pediatric advice, baby name votes) to the more bizarre (sexual confessions, political rants, comparisons of household income to waist size – huh?!) Anyway, I used to frequent this site quite a bit when I was pregnant with Toddler and when she was young. At some point though, I stopped because I was disenchanted with the palpable meanness and snark that emerged in this anonymous forum.

Recently, I have popped back on from time to time. Out of curiosity. To be honest, this site is an amazing resource for the writer. Where else can you log on and get a real-time sampling of human conversation and concern? Where else can you pose an anonymous question and get a near-instant response from real people? (Warning to all: if you are a UB regular, your antics might just appear in my next novel!)

Anyway. I was on the site the other day and I watched a curious debate ensue. I will give you the basics. A mother of three children says that she has lost all of her baby weight, that she is quite thin actually, but that she still has a conspicuous belly (she calls it a “ball”). Fine. So what? People have kids and their bodies change. This is hardly revolutionary, right? Anyway, this woman says that she does not want to lose any more weight, that she has tried every exercise under the sun, but that this “ball” will not deflate. And. And her husband will not stop talking about it and mentioning it.

Ugh.

This woman mentions that she cannot afford plastic surgery and that she just doesn’t know what to do. Then she (foolishly?) turns to the UB population for advice. And this lucky lady gets some pretty unanimous advice: Don’t worry about your baby belly. Lose the husband. Yes, that’s right. People get angry and told her that the issue here is not her body, but her betrothed. A few people defend her husband a bit and say that he is allowed to make comments about his wife’s appearance, that partners should be able to be honest about such things. Another responder says that there is a vast difference between discussing issues of weight and health and suggesting that a woman change something about her appearance that she might not be able to change. The general feel here is that this man was essentially evil for disparaging his wife, and particularly her belly, that safe and cozy place where his own three children had grown.

I logged off and thought about this some. Obviously, none of us has the whole story here. We have no real grasp of the dynamics in this marriage, or whether this guy, this critical-seeming husband, is bad news. But. I will say that this woman’s words made me a bit sad and a bit feisty. What should she do?

Of course this is not just about this one woman. This is about all of us, isn’t it? When we enter into relationships, are we tacitly agreeing to an atmosphere of honesty even on tough and upsetting concepts? Or are there things that are off-limits like body and particularly body after babies? Goodness, I don’t pretend to know.

What I do know is that in my opinion, 99.9% of women have some kind of body issue/insecurity. (I really can’t speak for men, but I imagine most men do too.) Personally, I could never be with a man who criticized my body at any time (short of some more serious obesity/health concern). I have witnessed men telling women not to eat the bread rolls at dinner or that they better watch it (and women saying these things to men too) and this stuff makes me cringe. I could never handle this. But maybe I am super-sensitive and idealistic?

Then again. Presumably, we all want to look good. For ourselves and those we love. Maybe, just maybe, this anonymous poster on UB is just as frustrated and critical of herself as her husband is. Maybe she wants to get her body back and is genuinely seeking advice about how to do this? I have no clue.

All I know? These body battles are tricky, tricky things and maybe come down to the individuals involved. One more thing I know? If Husband ever said anything negative about my body, particularly after popping out his precious progeny, there would be some old school fisticuffs. Thankfully (for him and for me), Husband, my sweet and supportive man, has never gone there. Maybe that is because I am so freaking hot and perfect???

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• Has your partner ever said anything critical about your body or your eating habits? How have you handled this?
• Do you feel at liberty to criticize your partner’s body or eating behaviors?
• Do you think there should be an added sensitivity surrounding body after babies or no?
• Do you think this man in the hypothetical above seems like a bad guy, or just honest?
• Do you have any advice for the woman who dared air her issue on UB? How to banish the belly “ball”?
• Assuming you could afford it, would you ever consider plastic surgery apres kiddos?
• Are there any places you go to cull instant and killer writing material?
  

Forty-two years ago, my parents got married.

Fourteen years ago, Sister I and Brother-in-Law J1 got married.

For obvious reasons, I don’t remember the first of these weddings. But I do remember the second. I was seventeen and a mere week from heading off to Yale. I was so happy. So excited. So stuffed with anticipation. My sisters and I were bridesmaids. We wore big blue ball skirts and ivory tops. Five minutes before we were to process into the picturesque gardens, the skies opened up on all the lemonade-sipping guests. What ensued was an unpredicted and utterly perfect evening of celebration. My keenest recollection of that night was gathering with my four sisters and my parents at the center of the dance floor where we all threw our arms around each other and got down to “We Are Family.”

I remember when Sister I and BIL J1 so graciously presented my parents with an anniversary cake. I remember Mom cutting a slice and feeding it to Dad and how tuxedo-clad Dad, ever the goofball, bit her finger. The laughter that erupted was priceless.

I remember how beautiful my oldest sister looked that day. How her big dress bounced and twirled. How she looked at the handsome man who was her guy. That night? I am realizing today, on this happy and sad anniversary, that it meant more to me, young me, than I ever realized. It was a night on which generations commingled to celebrate and commemorate life and love, a night when Mother Nature intervened, soaking us all with sweet summer awareness of what really matters.

And here we are. Many years later. College happened. Life happened. Beloved creatures have arrived on the scene. A certain beloved creature has departed.

Today. I am full of love and reverence, my soul tinged with a bittersweet ache for what was and a profound affection and admiration for my predecessors in this good, if sometimes cruel, game of love.

Happy Anniversary, I and J! Love you guys.

Happy Anniversary, Mom. I know today won’t be easy, but I also hope it is laced with laughter and marked with memory. Do you remember when he bit your finger? Silly, silly man I love you. Today. Always.

Saturday. Late morning. We arrive at Turtle Pond. Two girls smile and skip. The grass is green and ready for us. Sunshine shimmies above, and around. We find a spot, a good spot, under a big tree. We spread out a blanket, plaid, and sit. We unwrap sandwiches Daddy made. Turkey and cheese. Little ones sip from juice boxes. At lunch with us? A tiny stuffed turtle named Tuck. A little stuffed bunny named Ruby. Lucky guests at our family picnic.

Big girl stands and does the pee dance. I have to go potty! A strong guy, her father, scoops her up. Little girl chants, Coming too! This mother sits on picnic plaid, amid turkey shreds and bread crumbs and watches her creatures go. Little legs wrapped around a broad and tapering torso, feet kicking, hands flailing, dangling turtle and bunny. Bye bye, Mommy! Sweet words trail them.

Soon, they are back. And big girl is wet with tears. Her turtle is gone. Went swimming in a feces-coated Central Park public toilet. Was rescued briefly only to make a swift plunge into the trash. This girl is inconsolable. She collapses onto this mother’s lap, shaking with sobs. And we stand and walk to the dock. To see the ducks and the turtles and the life.

We will get a new Tuck, this mother says, foolishly says. It will be exactly the same.

Behind her simple and desperate words of reassurance, this one mother wonders about something big. Loss. It will happen. It will happen with things more consequential than tiny turtles. It will happen with things and creatures and places that cannot be replaced. This mother knows this, and deeply, because she has lost things. Important things.

But for now. This is hard enough. A little girl quaking at the loss of a friend. An untimely goodbye. A small and cruel snapshot of what’s to come.

She is okay. I am okay.

(Are we ever really okay?)

It’s just a toy turtle. It’s not just a toy turtle.

(Is it ever just a toy turtle?)

I love you, Toddler. You are my brilliant babe, so strong and so sensitive, keen already to the lessons life has no choice but to teach us.

R.I.P. Tuck (#1)

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• Did you lose any cherished toys as a child? Have your children lost anything dear to them? How did you deal?
• Do you agree that life is a constant lesson in love and longing and loss?
• Do you think Husband did the right thing by tossing Tuck? (At first, I thought the poop-slicked little guy should have been brought home for a bath.)
• Do these tiny tragedies make you think about the bigger instances of loss in your life or is it just me?
  

(Ha.)

Once upon a time, there was a young woman. She was a happy, if thoughtful, creature. A jolly, if jaded, city soul. One Thursday night, she went on a date with her husband, a handsome man whom she simply adored. They picked a small bistro. Settled into a small table for two. They perused the paper menu and nibbled on fresh bread. They smiled at each other over the flickering candle between them.

They talked and laughed about life and love and learning. About the subtle shifting of seasons. When the time came, this young woman dug into her crab salad with peppers, a dish colorful and spry. He tasted his lamb and declared it delicious. And then this young woman started talking about something she rarely discussed; her writing. She talked about her new protagonist, a smart young woman with issues. This woman’s husband did something at which he was singularly skilled: he listened. And they discussed this character. Her childhood scars. Her curious academic fetishes. Her sexual blocks.

And this young woman, this writer, was thrilled when her man spoke up. Asking questions. Offering ideas of his own. This man helped her create; making this character come to life in that tiny bistro. But then. He said something. Something little, but pointed. Something intelligent, but critical too. And this young woman put down her fork.

In mere moments, this woman’s mood soured. Her words departed. She looked down at the napkin in her lap, so white, so blank, so stiff, no longer hungry. Her husband apologized. They vowed to talk about something else, but silence ensued. That flame flickered between them. And, in a soft voice, she apologized too. For sliding down, and away. For being so sensitive. For everything.

They paid the check. Walked into the night. Inched block by block toward home. I wish I could do something to snap out of this, she said. Her man nodded. A short time later, she felt better. Silly again. She grabbed her man’s hand and skipped beside him. His hand, though, was limp. She looked at his face, his eyes. And she saw what she had done. She had made him plunge too. Into that place. That bad place of blah.

She apologized again, her words sincere. He told her over and over that it was okay. That he was fine. They walked along, hands swinging, not touching. At home, they surrendered to the couch. In time, the fog lifted from them both. Their fingers laced, they watched a television program. Their smiles came back.

***

Okay, that woman was me. Shocker, I know!

But this happened, this little something. Just last night. And this morning, I said to husband: Is it okay if I blog about bad moods? He said: Sure. We talked about last night, about how miserable I was in those moments, about how that misery was short-lived, but utterly yucky and contagious. Husband said something interesting. He said that he is immune to other people’s moods; that mine are the only ones that really affect him. I chose to view this as sweet instead of sinister. I chose to see this as a sign that we are unbelievably tight and that if I am sad, he is too because he cares so much and feels so close.

I don’t know. But I am sitting here in my yoga pants and bedhead wondering about bad moods and whether they can be cured before they spread and infect others. Whether there is something I could have done in that quaint restaurant to treat my momentary malaise. Just now, I did what any savvy modern soul would do. I Googled “bad mood.” The first search result was an article from Real Simple magazine called Banish a Bad Mood in 15 Minutes. Yay! I clicked.

And then I laughed. Because the article tells us that we can pull ourselves out of a funk with three simple steps: (1) Decode your mood! (2) Calm down!; and (3) Create a Strategy! I had zero tolerance for this article. I felt, and immediately, an aversion to the prescriptive strategy it offered for everyday blues. I guess I think that bad moods happen and that we just need to wait them out. (Or eat a cupcake. Yum.)

I don’t know. Maybe I should really go back and read that article. Maybe it contains true pearls that will come in handy on my next date night when my mood threatens to dive. Perhaps I need to be more open-minded. Or maybe I shouldn’t talk about my writing. Maybe the material is just too raw, too delicate, too fragile. Again, I don’t know.

I do know though that I am now fixated on the question of moods, on whether they are truly transmittable, and even more so between partners. Are good moods equally contagious? Let’s hope so because this morning I’m feeling quite perky. I’m going to go throw my arms around my man, maybe tickle him a bit, shower him with my silliness.

We’ll see what happens…

Dear Husband, Thank you for tolerating me and loving me, marvelous mood swings and all.

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• Do you ever unexpectedly slide into bad moods?
• Have you ever given someone else your bad mood? Have you ever fallen into a bad mood because of someone else?
• Do you think bad moods are particularly contagious between romantic partners?
• Are bad moods and good moods equally contagious or are germs of malaise more powerful?
• Do you ever discuss your writing with others? Are you sensitive about your material?
• Do you think we can follow steps to banish bad moods or are you skeptical like I am?
• Do you think moods are contagious through the screen? If you read a post from someone who is up or down, do you then feel better or worse, respectively?
• What do you do to combat bad moods? (Come on! Share your tricks. This post could end up being very helpful for us all!)