The fact that I am finding the time to write this wrapped in a towel on the couch while my children play a game in the bathroom featuring characters named Charlie Pimple and Diaper should qualify me as a writing mama. I've been one since the day darling Frances (aka Charlie Pimple) arrived on the scene.
But being a Writing Mama is a whole different ball of Play-Doh.
The Writing Mamas are the ice cream truck at the park of local writing groups. They've been written up here, there and everywhere for their cold and creamy menu of treats: excellent guest speakers (authors and agents and more) preceded by networking and chatting time, and followed by critique circles. Special events like the Mama Monologues where members read their work are the MnM's on top.
So why has it taken me seven years to arrive at the doors of Book Passage on a Sunday night, in jeans, boots, a cute tee and my red suede jacket that makes me feel like I just spent the day wandering Green Apple books and eating at King of Thai noodle house, instead of measuring out Children's Tylenol and watching the Care Bears?
One, I'm not a joiner, by nature. Not one of those me-and-my-group-of-15-best-friends-on-a-spa-weekend gals. Don't know why, really, except perhaps a few seminal meangirl moments back in the day. That and the fact that I spent and spend most of my free time with my nose in a book, or an iBook.
I also thought to be a Writing Mama you had to be writing about motherhood, which is not so. WM's featured on their website www.writingmamas.com spill their ink on a wide array of subjects, not just, as their motto says, "the multi-hued poop." And quite a tidy number of them have birthed books as well as babes.
So leaving my loner streak behind, I signed my name on the line. The evening that followed was just what I needed: intelligent conversation about writing and publishing and mothering and wifing and working, in a Care Bear-free environment.