Twenty Ways to Deal with Writer's Block

Ever since I decided to go back to blogging on a regular basis, I’ve been plagued by a massive, dare I say epic, case of writer’s block.

For the last week, I’ve wracked my brain for a topic to write about.

Each time I sit down at my desk and look at my empty screen.

I went over past blog posts. I spent hours on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest trying to find an idea that would be worthy of an essay. And, just to be clear, all the hours reading social media sites was only for research. I did not enjoy doing any of these things. (I sense your doubt.)

No ideas were coming to me.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

 Finally at the end of my rope, I came up with twenty ways to get over writer’s block:

1.  Moan, groan and complain that you have nothing left to write about. Use a very dramatic voice for more effect. If you can conjure up some tears, it will totally add to the “poor me” effect.

2. Sit down and try to write again. Start and throw out 10 essays.

3. Ask all your writing friends for ideas on how to get over this annoying block.  Love the ideas about unplugging from the computer and walking away from writing. Hate the ideas about having to just sit down and write because if there is one thing you don’t want to do to get over your block, it’s write.

4. Remind yourself that your friends are talented writers, feel intimidated, quit writing, take up underwater basket weaving.

5. Spend some time thinking about whether or not there really is something called underwater basket weaving or was it just something your high school choir director would tell you would be your major in college because clearly you would never be good enough for anything else.

6. Go into kitchen where family is eating a late lunch and beg husband for an idea.

7. Get into argument with husband when he tells you that the only way through your writer’s block is to sit down and write. If you feel up to it, throw back in his face all you have done to help him over the twenty years you have been married.

8. Plead with all three of your children for an idea, any idea.

9. Dismiss the eleven-year-old’s suggestion of writing about princesses and the eight-year-old’s idea of writing about his deep fear of animals. Not because they are not good ideas, but because you have already written about them

10. Decide that you have exhausted everything in your life to write about and that you are a complete failure as a writer. You might want to throw in a few more minutes of deep self pity here, but that’s only a suggestion.

11. Get another cup of coffee.

12. Look around for a snack that is only 2 points with Weight Watchers because you blew 5 points on the chocolate that you swore would end your writer’s block. Sadly it did not.

13. Start to get not-so-secretly annoyed by 14-year-old son, who has clearly become too much like his father when he laughingly suggests writing about the “Harlem Shake.”

14. Now that husband is laughing along with son, go ahead and give the man a very dirty look. Make note of the fact that he gives son secret hand sign to let the poor child know he better quit teasing his mother because husband knows his wife and he knows that any minute she is going to eat her firstborn.

15. Go into your office, which is really just a small corner of the bedroom, and look at the blank computer screen. Again.

16. Change the radio station from the soft pop station to the one devoted to songs of the 70s.  Maybe listening to the same songs that you did as a child will spark a memory.

17. Listen to a song from Jim Stafford and realize that the song is about growing and smoking pot. Start wondering if your conservative parents knew what this song was about and if they did why did they let you listen to it when you were just a little girl?

18. Start thinking maybe you don’t know your parents as well as you think you do.

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19. Make mental note to mention this fact the next time they question your parenting skills because you let your youngest child watch Friends with you and your 14 year old.

20. When all of that fails to work, write an essay about the ways that you deal with writer’s block.

* I would like to thank the following amazing bloggers for taking the time to give me some great suggestions and support through my (very dramatic) hour of need; Faith of An Edible Mosaic, Gina of Totally Full Of It, Leigh Ann of Greeen 4 U, J.D of Honest Mom, Erica of Northwest Edible Life, Tara of Noshing with the Nolands, Nancy of Skinny Kitchen, Katie of Katie Neuman Photography, Alexandra of Good Day Regular People, Patsy of My Arms Wide Open, Pam of Momma Can and Laura of Find Catharsis. You guys are the best!

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When the Whole Wide World is Fast Asleep

It’s hard to believe but another Mother’s Day is coming to a close. I am now the very proud owner of a beautiful fingerprinted decorated picture frame from my 11 year old daughter Lizzy. A heart shaped wall hanging that my eight year old, Peter, made me and a lovely pair of earrings that my 14 year old son, Tom, picked out for me.

We had a fun day of being together, planting flowers and eating Chinese food. The only missing thing this weekend was a visit with my own mother. But, that will be corrected tomorrow when we meet for breakfast.

Becoming a mother 14 years ago changed my relationship with her in a way I never thought was possible. I now have a much deeper appreciation of who she was, and what she has given me.

I wrote the following piece last May under the title, In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning. It seemed especially fitting today. Thank you for letting me share it again.

Peace has descended on my happy home. My house has recovered from a full day of children running around, bouncing on beds and putting their hands all over the walls.

The air conditioner is humming, and I can hear the occasional creaks from a house that is well loved and well used.

No children are laughing, screaming or asking for bowls of cereal.

This is the time that dreams are made of.

Or more accurately, this is the time I should actually be dreaming, because everyone else is sound asleep.

Everyone but me.

I'm so tired during the day that I could fall asleep while standing with a cup of coffee in my hands.

My eyes have such black rings under them that it took me a whole two minutes to realize that it wasn't mascara underneath my eyes.

But I can't give up my midnight rendezvous with someone I don't get to spend much time with: me.

There is something about the middle of the night that is just too seductive for me to resist.

I don't have to worry about a call from a school nurse telling me someone is sick. No calls from my teenager, Tom, telling me that he forgot the book that he has to have for English class.

Not even a call from my husband, Joe, telling me his train is late again or asking me if we need milk.

All my chickens are present and accounted for.

I can breathe. A feeling of serenity comes upon me.

Some nights I just lay in my bed listening to music and the sounds of Joe breathing. Sometimes I catch up on a movie or TV show from the DVR.

But mostly I'm on the computer working or communing with other digital moms in blogger nirvana.

When I was growing up in the dark ages before computers and movies on demand, my mother used the hours after midnight to indulge her passion--cleaning.

As a young girl, I would go downstairs to get a drink of water only to end up scaring my mother half to death as she was scrubbing the kitchen floor on her hands and knees--too lost in her own thoughts to hear me approaching from behind.

My sisters and I bruised our shins more times than we'll ever count because we happened upon mom in the dining room or living room, with the furniture rearranged at 3:00 a.m.

I couldn't get over how much my mother was able to accomplish while we were sleeping.

I loved the times I would find my mother wide awake and engrossed in some household task. She would greet me with a warm, reassuring smile as she polished the silver or cleaned out the fridge.

She was a willing and captive audience. I could tell her about my day, or what boy I liked without having to worry about being interrupted by one of my sisters or a call from her office. I loved it.

My mother was a great sport about it. Never once did she complain that I was interrupting her time or make me feel unwanted. For that I thank her.

She might even deserve sainthood for it because now I know how precious the hours between midnight and sunup are for a mom.

As tired as I get and as much as I may regret my lack of sleep the next day, I love and cherish my nightly solitude.

The chance to think a complete thought without a seven-year-old Peter asking to join the circus is hard to give up.

I also love to watch my children sleeping. It doesn't matter what Tom said to me hours before that had me contemplating boarding school, or the screaming fit from Lizzy, my special needs daughter.

Or the endless, yet entertaining questions Peter asks. At that hour, they look like angels. Their beauty take my breath away.

Memories of little babies lying in my arms fast asleep after a 2:00 a.m. nursing come flooding back.

Back then, when exhaustion takes on a whole new level, I would use my second wind to just hold and rock my baby.

I would will myself to remember the feel of the weight of a sleeping newborn, or the sweet smiles of a six-month-old dreaming.

The time goes by so quickly, every day moving faster than the next. One day, sooner than I care to admit, I won't need the quiet of a sleepy house to recharge my spirit. My children will be grown and gone.

I guess I'll sleep then.

For now I will enjoy my peaceful sleepy house. And remember to buy a better concealer for those under eye circles.

Mother's Day In All It's Glory

Mothers Day will soon be here, and everywhere I look I’m bombarded with ads and commercials that picture a happy mother cuddling her baby or getting sloppy kisses from her toddler.

The second Sunday of May is often depicted in loving images, with husbands giving beautiful and expensive presents and children making breakfast in bed for mommy.

The mother is often portrayed in saintly ways smiling as her kitchen is wrecked by adorable children out of central casting. Perhaps she’s smiling as her befuddled husband tries to get the kids ready for mom’s one big day off and at the end is handed her “prize” of a bracelet or diamond necklace.

I’ll admit that for my first few Mother’s Days I was a little let down that music didn’t play as my kids came in with coffee and homemade cards, or that at the end of cleaning up my children’s latest mess, my husband didn’t look down at my tired, stressed out face, take me in his arms, push the hair out of my eyes and hand me a present to end all presents while my adorable kids giggle in the corner.

I love my life, but it’s much messier than the Madison Avenue version.

If past Mother’s Days are any indication to what will happen next Sunday, I’ll get woken in the middle of the night by a sick child or find an elbow in my face by a kid that has snuck in between my husband and me.

As I clean up the sick child, or try to gently move the intruder back to their own bed, I’ll hear my husband mumble “Happy Mother’s Day” while we both crack up at the way our life turned out.

I’ll go back to sleep only to be woken an hour or two later after one of my sons ask for bacon and eggs. Maybe my eight-year-old will ask if he can join the circus, or live at Grandma’s house. Again I will hear my husband laugh. He’ll tell the kids it’s Mother’s Day and we should let mommy sleep. Again, I’ll go back to sleep laughing.

I will then be woken up another hour or two later to the beautiful peaceful sounds of my daughter screaming my name from my now locked door and my husband yelling, “Let Mommy sleep; it’s Mother’s Day.’”

That will be followed by my husband’s pleas to sign my card and telling someone to stop picking their nose, hitting their brother, or eating the special breakfast that is meant for me.

Then my family will come in my room all smiles.

If I’m really lucky, I may get to hear in no particular order: “Stop hitting me.” “I’m not hitting you.” “You’re a pain in the neck.” (Since we now have a 14-year-old, he may refer to another part of the anatomy when describing his younger brother). “Don’t talk to your brother and sister that way.” But only if I’m really lucky.

There will be my three beautiful children and my husband standing before me with presents, pictures, cards and coffee. My husband will direct each child to give me their present. I will ooh and ah as I hear how they picked out the presents and who tried to make a break for it at the store, or who had a meltdown at the bank because there were no more lollipops.

Then we will have breakfast and go about our day. Maybe we will take a ride to the beach or playground. Maybe we will buy some plants, and I’ll even have a minute to put them in the ground and watch the kids play with the water, getting completely soaked and filthy as they “help” me.

Dinner will be Chinese food and then children will be shooed into the shower and gotten ready for bed.

I will be tired, stressed out and not at all relaxed.

I will look at my husband, laugh and thank him for another great Mother’s day.

And you know what, it will be. 

Mother Knows Best

Like all new moms I felt my beautiful son was perfect. Yet I could not shake the feeling that something was not right with him.

He was bright, alert and even used sign language to communicate, but he was not speaking. And not crawling, even though he was nine months old.

I mentioned this to our pediatrician and I was told that babies don't crawl much these days and boys tend to speak later than girls.

Needless to say, I found another doctor.

Tom started to receive speech therapy, physical therapy and occupational therapy and started to make wonderful progress. It wasn't always easy and I had many sleepless nights, but by the time he was three, I was thrilled I listened to my gut. I felt like, "Super Mom," able to handle any problems that may come up as we happily expanded our family.

 Then we had our daughter Lizzy and all bets were off. I didn't feel super anymore.

This week on Bonbon Break I share some of the lessons I have learned as the mother of three wonderfully diverse children in my essay, When Something Doesn't Seem Right, and how I have learned that sometimes, mother knows best.

I hope you come over and not only read my post, but all the other wonderful work we have from some amazing contributors!

As always I thank you for your support!

Yes, the times they are a changing

Sitting at my desk and staring at my computer all I can see is my stuffed inbox. My anxiety level is rising by the second as I think of all I have to do.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. As I look up, I notice the pin board I keep over my desk. Among the post-it notes scribbled with reminders of things yet to do I notice a picture of me and my first born when he was just a few months old tucked into one of the ribbons.

How is it possible that the little blonde blue eyed boy who I would carry in my Baby Bjorn and later stroll all over Queens, is 14 and getting ready for high school?

I close my eyes and can almost feel myself back in the nursery with the teddy bear wallpaper and the crib with the bedding it took me weeks to pick out. I would rock a sleeping Tom in my arms and marvel at his creamy skin and sweet sleepy smile.

All of a sudden I’m startled out of my trance by a voice that I have not yet become accustomed to.

“Mom”

“Mom”

Who is this man-child with the light mustache and smile full of braces calling my name?

“Mom... dad is going to kill me.”

There is my baby, now 14 and carrying his cell phone. I have a pretty good idea why he is panicking now.

“Oh, no. Not again. Tom it’s only the 15th. How could you exceed your text limit?”

He starts to laugh a bit.

“Well can I help it if I have friends? I need a social life you know. I am a teenager. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?” More laughter.

Now I start laughing. “I understand Tom, but that’s it till the fourth of the month.”

“You know Zach has unlimited minutes and he has the iPhone.”

“Well Tom, Mallory has always been a nicer mother than I am. You know that, I know that, Mallory knows that.”

“Ha, Ha, Ha mom. Very funny.” Then he goes off with a combination smile and sulk.

I go back to my computer, relishing that Peter and Lizzy are sleeping and I have a little time to work.

As I start to get engrossed in my latest task, I find myself startled again by Tom.

“Hi Tom, what is it hon? Do you need something?”  


My tone is starting to reveal a bit of my impatience. I look at the clock on my computer. Shouldn’t he be in bed soon?

“Uh..no.  I forgot to tell you I got a 91 on my math test.”

Oh, that’s great. You must be happy about that. I find myself smiling and happy but still distracted.

“Yeah.”

“Is there anything else honey? I want to try to get a little work done now that Peter and Lizzy are sleeping.” 

 I’m starting to get more anxious as I remember that my to-do list is a mile long and no matter how much I do it never seems to get shorter.

“No. When do you think Dad is going to get home?”

“I’m not sure. It’s 9:30 now. Probably soon.”

“Do you think he is going to be really mad that I’m over my texting limiting.”

Now I’m getting really annoyed. Doesn’t this kid realize that I have been up since four in the morning and I still have things that need to get done?

"Tom, he will be fine. But you have to get with the program with the phone. If you can’t manage it, we will have to take it away."

“I know, I know.”

I go back to my work.

“Mom do you want to watch Friends with me?”

Now I’m mad. I start to have a conversation with him in my head. How am I supposed to do everything? I’m not a saint you know. Why do you have to need me now and not when I was trying to talk to you a half hour ago?

I open my mouth not sure what I’m going to say, but totally knowing what I want to.

Then I see those big blue eyes staring back at me.

Not much different than when he was just a little baby.

When did I start seeing this sweet boy as one more thing on my list? It hits me that he is 14 and very soon, I will be begging him for the smallest piece of his time.

Life is going so fast. I have become obsessed with getting everything done that I’m starting to forget what is really important. I am taking my precious son for granted.

“Sure Tom.”

We sit and watch a  rerun of Friends that we have seen a million times yet we both start laughing hysterically.

My heart starts to melt. Behind the deeper voice and cries for independence he is the same sweet child who needs me. In some ways even more than he did when he was younger.

“Thanks mom.”

“I love you Tom.”

“Love you too.”

All of a sudden my to-do list doesn’t seem so long.