But then the phone rings. The kids come home. An email message beeps. Another responsibility/ diversion takes over and I do not open the file.

A friend of mine had taken an acting class around the time the Blair Witch Project came out. “I could do that,” was the sentiment every actor had said. And the teacher replied, “Yes and the only difference is they did it.” And I’m not doing it.

I look back with regret about the amount of time and opportunity I had to write more and I did not. Because the phone rang. The dog needed to be walked. An email message beeped. Another responsibility/ diversion took over.

I have a 101 ideas. I have a 1001 ideas. I need help executing. Entire buildings have been constructed in the time it is taking me to complete a novel, and not even something that aspires to be a literary masterpiece.

I’ve run marathons. I’ve given birth two times, once to a nine and a half pound baby. I’ve bought and sold real estate, begun and settled lawsuits, filed estate tax returns, renovated apartments, leased spaces, fostered amazing friendships, stopped talking to friends I considered family, taken writing courses, remained quasi-current on my photo albums but I have not finished my novel.

I have a million and one great excuses – realistically probably a thousand or so – most of which are legitimate (i:e planning a birthday party, moving furniture, pregnancy, the doctor telling me to rest more – although this could be perceived as a motivation, a new nanny and so on), but none of which will help me finish my book or keep the creative juices flowing.

And there are plenty of decent motivations that should help me through this hump.

I think about my book, even ordered two books that seem remotely related to mine. One of them, Posh is proving to be unreadable. One would think that seeing a poorly written published book would motivate me to finish mine and seek a publisher. One would think.

I rearranged my home office, and actually have a decent desk, albeit under the staircase, and now have some surface area to work. I no longer have a door to my space so my kids have been rummaging through the drawers spilling paper clips, emptying the shredder and running off with my wrist rests. On the upside, I do feel on top of most of my office paperwork that needs attention.

Frustrated with my nearly eight year old laptop and intermittent battery, I splurged on a new macbook air, opting for the lightest computer to reduce any excuse about not wanting to carry around my bulky laptop. I’ve had a few minor hiccups with it and as a result I’m not entirely certain I want to keep it, so I’m hesitant to install Microsoft Word on it (Yes, a $1,000 plus dollar computer still requires additional basic software), as I’m limited to the number of installations.

Before I completely embrace my new computer and apply the cover which allegedly scratches the computer surface upon removal, I need to spend time on the phone with customer support. Finding a few moments when the kids leave me alone to make the call and play on the computers is usually after bedtime when I am tired, hungry and likely angry from fighting the bed time battle ritual.

Microsoft Word shows when comments were made and I could see that she might fire off three comments over five pages in a span of about 1-2 minutes. There were typos she should have caught including me referring to the wrong character, of course you could argue that I should have picked up on it myself but I was not hired as an editor and typos in some of her notes.

Some of her ideas were cheesy and cliched. She’d add a line like “I felt his hot breath on my neck and I just wanted to go home and get in bed with him.” I had mentioned nothing about sex and if I did, I would have done so in a classier or at least more original voice.

She also cut out some great dialogue, really snappy endings. But hey, I’m the writer so I get to put it in.

We had our telephone consult today and I feel much more encouraged. I defended my desire to use multiple point of views, something she had nixed. Understanding my perspective, the editor suggested I do it more and begin it earlier creating consistency. So I will.

In all I feel more encouraged, and still slightly overwhelmed. While the edit was not a panacea to get the story in sellable shape, it will spawn more writing and editing.

She warned me I may have another draft after this one. Sigh. But I think she said this so I do not get all hung up on making the next draft *perfect* as opposed to getting it done.

The secret to writing is writing and rewriting. I imagine if I sit down and do it, and with two kids at camp I definitively have time. I also imagine that almost every writer has done this, write edit repeat.

I’m in good company.

Perhaps the moral of this is that I know my story and I have the confidence to craft the book I want, not necessarily what the editor suggests.

The other moral is that I really need to trust my gut. I liked that this editor had a reputation of giving concrete examples and ideas but my overall instinct on her writing and the total outcome was not totally optimistic. In retrospect I should have interviewed several editors instead of following the first referral.

Fortunately it was just an edit, not an insane amount of money, and perhaps this is the push I need to get me to finish the story. I did spend several hours last night reviewing her notes and am excited to continue today. That alone should be worth the cost of admission.

Her notes will help me fill in some of the blanks I had struggled with previously. Also included is a telephone call, and I imagine/hope lots of emails. So I will remain optimistic and relish the new energy I have for the novel!

This simple sentence has provided immense comfort as I think how unfair it is that I don’t have my mom.

When I told a college friend about my mom’s passing, she shook her said no, I can’t imagine that as if a word without her inspiring and opinionated mother did not exist. I reminded her, don’t you think I felt that way?

I suppose if my mom and I were not as close her loss would have been easier, but it also meant that I would have missed out on our laughter, adventures and friendship.

Lately I’ve been very emotional about not having my mom, the wound healing but still very raw after two and a half years. I found a table on the internet that I love for sale in Virginia. The owner asked if I ever made my way to Virginia and all I could think is that I could send my mom the picture of the table and she’d likely say, let’s go down to Virginia for 48 hours and look at it and do X Y and Z touristy thing.

Of course I should be honest with myself and acknowledge that she could say, summer is the rare time I like being home and I’ll travel with you in September. Both very possible.

As part of the From Left to Write Book Club I read The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elizabeth Tova Bailey. In her 30s, the author was struck with a mysterious and debilitating illness leaving her bedridden. A friend brings her a piece of the outdoors: some leaves, dirt, twigs and a snail. The mollusk becomes her companion, mentor and diversion. That this young writer must retreat from society with barely enough energy to roll over and see her snail is totally unfair. The list goes on on and on of good people who hit adversity, suffer loss, experience pain.

And somehow, that every person suffers his or her own adversity is supposed to give us comfort. Some tragedies are more severe than others, some create new opportunities, and some knock the wind out of us. But life continues and it is our choice to rejoin.

So I missed the class, check is cashed. I’ll have to retake it later.

However, I have decided to hire a book editor to help me with my novel. I have the rough draft but not the concentration to proof read it and make the changes necessary to make it into a sellable book (the likes of which I would have learned last Saturday had I not been in bed popping Tylenols). The editor will not read all of my ramblings, loose character descriptions, or edited scenes. She will go through my draft, line edit the grammar and help me fill in scenes and story development.

I do fear that I am looking at this as a bit of a panacea – I pay editor and poof! my manuscript becomes marketable. I know more work lies ahead. It’s just a kick start – financial because the editor is not cheap and motivational because I will have a road map on how to improve. I have to imagine this is a better course of action than taking a class with an unpublished author where I spend the majority of my time giving feedback to other unpublished authors with the occasional day that said writers offer their opinions on a short excerpt of my tome.

I asked the editor if I should make some of the minor changes I had made on paper to the computer file I will send her and she gave the best answer, if I can yes if it is going to hold me up, no. She doesn’t have time to read the book until June which means I have the next few days to hunker down and edit and hopefully develop a good work habit for the summer. Worst case, I don’t and her job as an editor involves correcting a few more typos. Either way, I have to believe I am moving forward.

As part of the From Left To Write Book Club I read 29: A Novel by Adena Halpern about a grandmother who gets her birthday wish to be 29 again for one day.

Yesterday my grandmother celebrated her 93rd birthday with an intimate gathering of friends. My siblings and I bought her an iPad so she would not be restricted using her computer at her desk. As for the friend who suggested the gift and offered to participate, I made her promise to teach my grandma how to use the device.

My grandmother and I have always been close; she’s felt a special kinship for me for years and has even admitted to me being her favorite granddaughter. This also translates to more responsibilities for me, like visiting her and calling her more frequently than my siblings, and helping her navigate everything from technology (she still has not learned how to use the cell phones I’ve purchased her), shopping and more. She’s still a heck of a lot better than most of her friends who she complains are aging poorly. She’s lived an amazing life as a performer and business woman, and at times is more coherent than my dad.

It’s sad to think that she has a finite amount of time left on earth and when she goes a little bit more of my mom will disappear as my grandma has a lifetime of memories of her only daughter. But as I remind myself, nobody gets out alive.

My mom never indulged this line of discussion, but my grandma admits to regrets, mostly surrounding her relationship with her husband. “If he didn’t die, I would have left him,” she’s said. I do not encourage this line of speaking too much as there is nothing to gain and for someone eternally optimistic, Grams does not need recall painful memories. She’s expressed remorse at only having one child, but after a miscarriage and breast cancer diagnosis, the doctors told her she could not have more.

My mother always said life is not a dress rehearsal. While I will ask Grandma what she would do differently if she could revisit 29, I’ll continue to live as if this is my one shot

I recently read The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot about cells taken from a black woman in 1950s. The cells, unlike any other, had an immortal quality where they kept multiplying and even infesting other sterilized scientific studies. The sample, as was practiced at the time, was taken without consent. As the cells grew, spawning an entirely new industry the family was never made aware. They have yet to be compensated by any of companies profiting from the cells and cannot even afford basic health care.

The story has stuck with me on several fronts.

The first was that horrible childhood of Henrietta, her children and even some of the grandchildren. Henrietta had, besides cancer, syphilis and HPV likely gifts from her philandering husband. One child was abused so, and I only know from the two antidotes in the story so I must fathom it was worse than what I read in a few pages, that the reader can almost forgive his unpleasant disposition. Another daughter was repeatedly raped by the husband of her father’s girlfriend, while the father turned a blind eye. All left school early.

Perhaps its a testament to my sheltered life, but it’s so hard to imagine such abuse existing even though I know it does. I have had my fair share of trauma and drama throughout my childhood. While I was raised in a privileged home with two siblings, I remember feeling extremely alone and often a burden to my parents. By the time I went away for high school most of my misery subsided. I have survived without physical abuse, sexual abuse or rape which must put me ahead of many, and light years ahead of the Lack’s family.

The other part of this book that I struggle to comprehend is that Ms. Lacks’ cells are still circulated and used for countless research including a cure for polio. I’m sure the family must grapple with part of their mother not being at rest. From a Jewish perspective, the immortal cells would cause many discomfort. Some rabbis collect all of the stray hair and fingernails of the deceased so the soul can rest without concern of the body.

When going through my mother’s bathroom shortly after she passed I found her hairbrush filled with stray hairs. Holding that brush, longing for my mom I briefly contemplated what to do. Without consulting my sister, as I had been doing for many decisions, I threw the hairs away. Now I cannot imagine my internal debate, but then it had been a big decision. Imagine if each of those hairs where in someone else’s hands, or laboratory, out of my control. Like the Lack’s I’d be happy they were being used for good, but I’d feel violated for not being consulted on their secondary life.

The final thing that I love about The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks is that it took the author ten years to write it! Sure she has a much better excuse than I have offered (The Lacks family initial reluctance to talk to her, and all of that scientific research) but it’s comforting to know that even talented writers have their obstacles.

I left the book at my hotel on vacation with the hopes that someone will find it and enjoy it as much as I did.

I have dusted off my tome and think about editing it but I have not done so.

I can rationalize and say that it is resistance stopping me, but it is not enough for me to sit down and work.

It’s a shame because I am happier when I write and feel productive.

I’m doing other things like working on my real estate business but I’m not writing.

Hitler had studied to be a painter. He found it easier to go to war and kill millions than continue to paint.

I want to be the person that is introduced as having just finished/published a book. I’ve talked long enough about being a writer and writing, it would be great to have something tangible to show for it.

Writer’s write. I lament.

I can’t use my previous excuses of having a newborn or losing my mom anymore. I have help and I cannot two years after the fact use the loss of my mom as an excuse.

I am building a bathroom in my apartment because I had gotten sick of talking about it and wanted to do it. I feel the same way about writing, but I just can’t hire someone to do the work for me. I suppose I could hire an editor or a mentor or even carve out time to do my work. I just haven’t yet Perhaps soon I will tire of excuses and get back to the thrill of writing. That would be nice.

There is the occasional cross post, an incentive when I first joined the now defunct NYC Moms Blog. Then there is the random blog that directed two people in one week. Some website that included me enough to entice two readers, however briefly, to read my work at my sister blog, Milf Alert.

So I clicked. The portal showed a car with a brick paint job. The black brick motif extended to th wheels and hubcaps. In the photo a woman with an umbrella observes the unusual car. The site fancies itself a portal, and other than “password” and “ebook” I did not recognize any words or the language. Among the tags, I only identified Israel twice.

At first I thought this could be a terrorist site that lures recruits by visiting their blogs, and given said fear, I closed the screen.

When I was looking for a name of my other site, I wanted something that captured my need to feel sexy and relevant without denouncing my husband and child. Milf. The grammatically incorrect acronym for Mom I’d Like Fuck. Milf.wordpress.com had been taken by someone who had not posted since 2005. Milf had taken my name and abandoned the site, leading me to claim Milf Alert.

I went back to the Milf blog because even in 2005 the writer did not portray herself as a Mom, let alone one I’d like to fuck. The author has a different acronym for Milf that doesn’t involve fucking. Moro Islamic Liberation Front. Not sure what that means, or if it is related to Pulakdah! the other wordpress blog, but I’m suspicious.

Is this a mere coincidence or are terrorists using these particular sites to communicate with each other in code. Was this a mere internet overlap or a giant conspiracy. I suppose I could google the word Milf or even that Moro Islamic movement. Might be a peaceful collection of young gentleman inspiring peace around the globe and I a paranoid writer with subconscious bigotry, succumbing to stereotypes?

11 people came to my site by typing in the word Milf to their search engines, who knows what they were looking for, or whether they had found it.