• About

l steinauer

l steinauer

Monthly Archives: December 2012

A mother’s whisper

20 Thursday Dec 2012

Posted by lsteinauer in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

gun control, motherhood, Newtown, parenting

A mother’s whisper

In 2009 two women, Donna McNamee and Abigail Sicolo, lifted a 1,400kg car off of a little boy who was trapped underneath. Afterwards the women were shocked that they’d managed such a feat. But this is an old story, a story reenacted countless time through the centuries. Upon seeing a child’s life in jeopardy, mothers tap their inner Hercules and, in Donna and Abigail’s case, start throwing cars around.

With two young children of my own, I will long remember the Newtown Elementary school shooting. And as I sit in my living room, whispering to myself that this must never happen again, I know I’m not alone. I can hear the same whisper from every state, every town, every living room. And the whisper grows louder.

A woman pulls up to her child’s elementary school, feels her chest tighten, and for a moment does not want to open the car door releasing her child into the world and its looming uncertainty. Across the country, the mother feeding her baby puts down the spoon to wipe her eyes after having watched tiny coffins on TV with the sound turned off.

It’s not just mothers who feel this. It’s fathers, grandparents, aunts, uncles, caretakers, and more. The feeling lingers with us all, sitting between our ribs, simmering.

Another week will pass, and then three. Those of us who didn’t know the victims of this crime will continue on with our lives. Gun sales will spike, and the NRA will come up with some carefully devised tactic for self-preservation.

In the silence following last week’s shootings we could feel the howl of mothers and fathers who had lost their babies. This howl resonates in each of us, transforming us, reminding us of our communal responsibility to protect every child from becoming a victim of violence. And to our children we say, “We won’t let this happen again. We promise you.”

There are over 85 million mothers in America, a group typically too occupied with taking care of everyone else to make their own noise. We are the quiet lioness scanning the horizon for strangers while our children dance like butterflies in the tall grass.

For now, we pace and wait, knowing the call will come for meaningful change in gun control. And when it does, we will answer with a deafening roar.

shower

09 Sunday Dec 2012

Posted by lsteinauer in Uncategorized

≈ 5 Comments

Three years ago I was hiding from the kids in the shower when I had the idea to write a book. The problem was I had no writing background, at least not really. One intro to creative writing class in college didn’t count for much, and since then, I’d written barely a word. At least, not until my mother got sick.

It was when my mother was dying from cancer that I not only found the inspiration to write, but the necessity to. Sitting in her shoebox apartment, windows open to Zurich’s church bells singing their seven o’clock chorus, I wrote while Mom slept off her latest chemo treatment. Typing the pain, loneliness, and unexpected humor of my experience into emails, I sent them one by one to family and friends on the other side of the world. And with each email, I shared a small part of what it was like to be losing someone I loved. That’s when I learned what writing could really be: an outlet, a connection, and on a few occasions, the safety bar that kept me off the floor.

After my mother died, I joined a grieving daughter’s support group. At the ripe age of 32, I was the youngest one there. I was also the only one who was pregnant. No one’s story was the same, but brought together by our loss, we understood each other. Before the group ended, one member asked me if I wanted to join her writing group, Bellas.

“What makes you think I can write?” I asked her.

“I just do.”

Bellas was composed of real writers – middle-aged women in sandals who sipped hibiscus tea from thick ceramic mugs. Most of them had been writing for years and some of them even got paid for it. I was in awe.

And I was totally out of my league.

I couldn’t do what they did. I couldn’t write vibrant prose on the fly. Hell, I couldn’t even write dialogue. It was clear I didn’t belong in this group. Secretly I waited to be asked to leave. One by one, the Bellas would come to their senses, realizing they had made the grave mistake of inviting a bumbling imposter with bits of dried baby food in her hair to share in their peaceful writing haven. But whenever it was my turn to read to the group, tucked inside the mess of my writing, they would always find something nice to comment on.

Bellas eventually dissolved. That was right after I’d proudly announced to them my grand aspiration to write a YA paranormal romance novel. Sometimes I wonder if they secretly changed the group’s name and continued meeting – without me- in someone’s basement.

With no idea how to write a novel, I applied to join two different writing groups who had posted for new members. But no one bothered getting back to me. Branded a pariah by my book’s genre, I decided to write it on my own. Well, not exactly on my own. I discovered a writing partner- a precious, patient, slightly obsessive friend who was willing to critique my manuscript as it formed, chapter-by-agonizing chapter. (Thanks, Therese.)

Somewhere I’d heard that a writer should read as many books in their genre as possible. So I tried. But some of the paranormal romance books were tough to get through. One of them I’d picked up at Target because it had a picture of a shirtless guy on it and it was on sale. Not the best reasons to buy a book, I learned.

But the problem remained: I needed to better my craft and I wasn’t learning fast enough.

New plan: Don’t read books in my genre. Instead, search out the shiny round awards decorating the best YA novels on the shelves and read as many of those as I can get my hands on.

Now that was a good plan.

These are the first three YA novels that completely blew my mind in order of my discovering them:

1) FEED, by MT Anderson

2) SPEAK, by Laurie Halse Anderson

3) THE ABSOLUTELY TRUE DIARY OF A PART TIME INDIAN, by Sherman Alexie

While reading these books and others, a strange thing began to happen. My good little  manuscript gradually stopped behaving. Something new had begun to unfold inside of it, something that at first didn’t seem to belong. Sprouting inside my novel was the real story, my small version of the shared human experience. So I nurtured it.

There’s a happy 40th birthday card on my nightstand written in crayon. Now I am officially middle-aged. Most people would consider this to be a bad thing, but I don’t. Pushing aside my laptop, I slip on my sandals, and pour another cup of tea. Maybe for Christmas I’ll get that nice thick ceramic mug.

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 490 other subscribers

Recent Posts

  • From Across the Parking Lot
  • Sifting Through The Ashes of Berkeley Family Camp
  • Reaching Through the Looking Glass
  • The Birds, the Bees, and why I lied about Santa
  • The Zen of Querying with an Aquarium

Archives

  • January 2015
  • August 2013
  • April 2013
  • March 2013
  • February 2013
  • January 2013
  • December 2012

Categories

  • Uncategorized

Meta

  • Register
  • Log in
  • Entries feed
  • Comments feed
  • WordPress.com

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 490 other subscribers

Blog at WordPress.com.

Privacy & Cookies: This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use.
To find out more, including how to control cookies, see here: Cookie Policy
  • Follow Following
    • l steinauer
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • l steinauer
    • Customize
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar