A Mother's Notebook: Inspiring the Next Generation of Writers and Readers

Photo courtesy of Jimmie

By Catherine Kearns

When I was younger, I enjoyed buying school supplies. It wasn’t because I wanted the coolest folder or newest backpack (I used the same red JanSport for years). The fact was I loved knowing that the notebook I was holding would become part of me for the next eight months. It would contain all the new ideas and theories I would learn over the course of the school year. These pages would be filled with my own handwriting. I could look back on these pages and be reminded of the time I spent in class, the memories that were made, and the lessons that were taught. Granted, some pages would be filled with doodles and quotes, or be ripped out and used as notes (I always hated the small pieces of paper that got left behind after ripping out a page—small imperfection in an otherwise neat notebook), but mostly that notebook would reflect who I was.

One could tell what kind of student I was just by glancing at the pages. My handwriting was neat and seldom would you find a mistake hidden in the words (I was not against rewriting an entire page for one spelling mistake). I took copious notes, even in classes that took their lessons straight from the textbook. I used highlighters while studying and made random comments in the margins. I was a student who enjoyed the lines of my notebook and took great pride in filling those pages with what I thought was most important.

Well, I haven’t bought a notebook in about 10 years. Damn…that makes me feel so old.

Anyway, this year I found myself buying my son his first notebook for kindergarten. When he was born people constantly told me that the time will fly by—that before I know it he will be all grown up and ready for the world without me. And, in the hopes of not sounding clique, it’s truly hard to believe that this moment in his life has arrived.

He will no longer sit with me at lunchtime or help me around the house as I scramble to keep things in order. I won’t hear, “Excuse me, Mom,” or “Mom, can you help me?” a million times a day. The bathroom sink will remain dry because he will not be there to soak the entire thing every time he washes his hands. His brothers will have to learn to entertain themselves without his constant rules and guidelines (my oldest is very much like me). But the hardest thing to accept is that part of me will be leaving the house every day, and I will have to survive without it seven hours every day.

I will constantly be wondering: Is he having fun? Did he eat his lunch? Is he listening to the teacher? Did he remember to wash his hands?  What is he learning? Did he forget his lunch box again? Questions I am sure that he will answer when he gets home—or he will just respond “good” to everything and act like nothing has changed for either one of us. But I will need to wait till pickup to find out these riveting tales. Let’s not forget the fact that he is five and chances are the stories will be filled with holes or exaggerated drama, which means I am still missing out. Not cool.

And then I am reminded—he will have a notebook that he will carry with him all year, allowing me to venture into his world and watch him grow. Of course, he wanted the coolest "Star Wars" notebook available (can’t have a school year without Kylo Ren and some badass Stormtroopers) but either way, this notebook will help fill in those hours when we are apart.

I will be able to watch his penmanship improve. Read sentences and thoughts he created without having to ask me what he should write. There will be drawings depicting his imagination and doodles that only make sense to him and his friends. His notebook will show me what kind of boy he is becoming, because, let’s be honest, he is no longer a baby. I will know just from looking at the pages what areas he still needs my help in and which ones he has figured out all on his own.

The pages will be his own. He will be the author and I will become the dedicated audience waiting patiently for the next chapter to begin. Let’s do this Connor…I will forever be your most dedicated reader.

The Writer’s Bone Essays Archive

Picking Up the Pen: Overcoming Your Fear and Becoming a Writer

By Robert Hilferty

About a month ago, my handsome buddy Sean Tuohy asked me if I’d be interested in contributing to Writer’s Bone. I told him I’d be delighted, as I’d had some ideas kicking around. And hey, why not?

I wrote my first piece titled “H.P. Lovecraft: Horror’s Racist Grandpa”. I wrote it and then told Sean I needed a week to look at it with fresh eyes to which he, being the kind gentleman that he is, obliged. I was proud that I was contributing to a website (on writing no less) and decided to tell a friend of mine about it. That’s when she tells me she’s read that blog post before. I’m not saying that I plagiarized the article (which you can read here), but rather, the idea had been done before and I found myself paralyzed. It’s not that I need to be a special snowflake or anything, but the fact that the core concept for my article down to the title was done and I felt as though it invalidated my whole piece.

H.P. Lovecraft: Master of Terror...and Racism

Now at this point you’re probably thinking to yourself, “I don’t really care about your pity party. Suck it up and move on.” However, I think my situation, much like my article idea, isn’t so unique. There are plenty of creative people who can’t get over their own fear to pick up a pen, or sit down at a keyboard, and write. I’m one of those people. Now before I get going, this isn’t going to spiral into some kind of self-help pitch, nor am I here to give you any solid tips on how to directly get over your own fear, rather I’m here to tell you my own story in hopes that it might help someone. I seriously doubt it, but fuck it.

Let’s do this thing.

I’ve always struggled with calling myself a writer and what being a writer really means to me. It’s something I’ve dealt with my whole life. I’ve talked to a lot of people on the subject and the opinions range from “We’re all writers” to “You’re not a writer until you’re a best-seller.” In many ways both of those extremes are right and in just as many ways they’re both assholes. Even though I’ve written my entire life—poetry, journals, short stories, tabletop RPGs, you name it—I’ve never called myself a writer. I always say that I’d like to be a writer and, despite a lifetime’s worth of writing, I don’t consider myself a “writer.” It’s just never been something I can comfortably self-identify with. It’s like some major title with powers and responsibility.

Fear is a mind killer and it can really consume you if you let it. I sat there staring at my article and felt like it didn’t mean a damn, terrified that I’d be called a hack or a sham for writing something so similar to what someone else wrote. The entire process stressed me out and it took a month to realize something monumental.

Who the fuck cares?

I’m the only one who actually gives a damn about this piece of shit article I’m writing and I’d rather I have something to point to and say, “I wrote this! Here it is on the Internet!” than have it sit on my computer.

Part of my problem that I’m a perfectionist and I feel as though everything I write must be gold. I’m overcoming that delusion slowly coming to terms with the fact that not everything I write is going to be special or perfect. This might be obvious to most, but it has taken me a long time to have it sink in. I’ve been writing my whole life so why not let other people see what it is I’ve been writing? There’s an excellent quote from Steve Johnson in “Where Good Ideas Come From: The Natural History of Innovation” that helps me put things in perspective:

This quote has helped me pull through a lot of hesitation in my writing and helps me feel okay when I fail spectacularly. I’m going to fail as inevitably as the next marketing push for Xbox Kinect, and now, unlike Microsoft, I get to learn from it all.

Seriously, how did they think this would be a good idea?

So what’s the takeaway from all this? Is it to simply suck it up and get over it? Was this whole article just a big apology letter for taking so bloody long to contribute to the Bone? Well sure, but it’s a bit more nuanced than that.

Writing is hard. At least for me it is. I put my heart on the page and blood in the metaphorical ink. Writing is who I am. I still may not consider myself a writer, but it’s what I do and it means too much to me to quit now.

Just try and stop me.

Essays Archive