May I Take This Opportunity to Scream?

[bluemaydie]

While I have to agree with almost every word of John C. Wright's "Ten Commandments," I also wanted to rend the computer screen into a thousand, thousand tiny shards after reading it. Yes, writers write, and correctly, too. And yes, writers write to be read. I get that. I know that. Really, I do. But to say that "in order to be a writer you must sell what you write?" Oh, that I were a man; I would eat his heart in the marketplace.*

Look, I haven't had a chance to read all the "writing is a vocation" pieces in DT. I've been a little busy doing something called "mommying." That's also the reason I don't do much paid writing these days--I either need much less sleep to make time to do it (and less sleep, when you're six months pregnant, is a VERY bad thing), or I need a babysitter, and my mom's only available over the summers. Anyway, since I haven't read those, what follows is going to sounds really half-cocked. Heck, I haven't even gotten my print issue, so I CAN'T read the latest installment, but here goes anyway:**

I'm not a writer, in the professional sense of the word, anymore, because I'm a mother. Because I don't want to hire a nanny to raise my kids so I can have a writing career. Because my toddler is one of those kids who will not play by himself (unless he's in the middle of a bodily function, and there's nothing like the knowledge of the diaper change to come to make you not even bother putting pen to paper). Because writing is still a full-time job, and doesn't work well with mothering without the same level of daycare that other full-time jobs require. And I don't want to put my son in daycare.

Before my son was born, I was convinced that writing was, in fact, my vocation. God wanted me to write. Before my son's birth, I worried about motherhood making me miss my calling. Sometimes, I still do, and writing isn't going to get any easier when the second baby gets here next year. But much as I love to write, I have to admit something now:

Writing is not my vocation. Writing is not anyone's vocation. Family is the only vocation anyone ever has, whether in the biological family created by marriage or the kinship in Christ nourished by the Church. I could write the works of Shakespeare over again, and they wouldn't be worth a damn if I neglected my family. Sometimes writing flows from our vocations, or becomes useful in our vocations, but in and of itself it is not a vocation. Idolized, it can destroy our true vocations. And then we're in deep bodily function.

My son is napping as I write this, and I ought to be working on a poetry project I started recently. See, I still write. God still wants me to write, I'm convinced. But it'll be years--when all my kids are old enough to make their own sandwiches--before I have a chance to work on sending these poems out. They'll just have to spend the night on my desk for a while. That can't be helped, nor should it. Mothering comes first. But that doesn't make me any less a writer. I may not make my living by it, and so what? I am a writer. But primarily, I am a mother. Let's not take our love of literature so far as to forget where out real work lies.

And now I'll go scribble a few lines before my boy wakes up and needs a diaper change.

Kate

*Oh, yes, it's a gender issue. Read the contributor bios for a few DT issues. How many fathers are published, versus how many mothers? I think my mothers count is up to two, myself included. No, DT is not sexist. But it's not uncommon to find fathers miraculously have more time for pursuing other interests than mothers do. Not all the feminism in the world will change that, anymore than it will give men wombs. It's the way of things. It is harder for mothers to be writers than for fathers, at least until the kids are in school, but let's be honest about the percentage of probable homeschoolers in DT's readership. Anyway, I can't say I'm surprised that the rule about a-writer-must-be-a-professional-writer was written by a man. That's all.

**Yes, I'm venting. It's the internet; it's allowed. Take it with a grain of hormone-induced salt, if you must. But it still holds good.

[katycarl]

I have to say this post goes right to my heart today. Nearly eight months pregnant with our first, arriving home from a full-time editorial job in the evenings with exactly zilch percent of the energy I used to put into staying up late and scribbling, I've found myself in quite the literary dry patch -- and I can't say I'm not anxious over it. I won't swear to a statement that I don't sometimes wake up in the wee hours, breathing shallowly and experiencing palpitations at the (surely diabolically suggested) prospect of the next thirty years without fifteen minutes' quiet, solitary thought. I picture myself on my deathbed, wondering what was the point of all those hours and months of agony over my novel if nothing ever comes of it: if it is, after all, in worldly terms at least, a failure.

And I resent -- well, something: though I'm not sure yet where my resentment should be aimed. At biology, for making me want to love a husband and bear his children? At modernity, for trying to sell me the lie that I could achieve fabulous success in both mothering and authoring with no help and no trade-offs? At contemporary society, for de-valuing the traditional contributions of women and slashing apart the tightly woven webs that used to allow at least some of us to excel in art without sacrificing family? At the economy, for not giving me independent leisured wealth? For now, in sympathy with you, Kate, at least part of my resentment is aimed at this thought: that my success or failure is determined by whether I found a paying audience, rather than by whether I crafted a piece of fiction that intended to achieve the virtue of literature and did in fact achieve it.

I think we are perhaps right to resent together this claim of Mr. Wright's, that a "real" writer is a professional writer. Surely Emily Dickinson never sold anything she wrote, at least while she lived. Who would deny her the title of real writer? Other examples are harder to come by, maybe: they were unknown, or less well known. My husband hypothesized once that for every Emily Dickinson, there were a hundred women whose postmortem papers concealed equally good poems -- burned by their families without ever looking to see what they were, undiscovered, lost to us forever. The thought of this loss brings me near tears every time I return to it. Yet I return to it often. And I will return to it later.

At the moment, I think we resent Wright's equation because we recognize the truth that lurks in it. I doubt Wright means that one's worth as a writer depends on one's royalty balance, but certainly he is right that one's efforts to sell (or distribute) writing can be taken as one fairly reliable indicator of seriousness. And seriousness is something to which we all aspire: to be taken seriously, yes, but also to be serious, to produce work that took serious effort to make and is worthy of serious effort on a reader's part to understand (and, secondarily, of his dollars to purchase).

I think it is this seriousness, outwardly proved in some way be it only in consistent and thoughtful output, that constitutes literary vocation. To preserve the way I used to think (as long as it can be preserved), I have found it useful to think in terms of big-V Vocation or primary vocation, which is absolutely to holiness in the context of family and without which any other work however good merits little; and secondary or little-v vocation, in the sense of work, task, craftsmanship, to which we can also legitimately be called. And perhaps this is my naivete speaking, but I continue to hold the (rash, foolish) hope that these two, for women, need not be contradictory.

I've also been trying to reassure myself with the "seasons" defense: in keeping with the cyclical tendencies of a woman's life, there are times when it is Time to Focus on this aspect, or that aspect. One - if one is a woman - may be able to do it all, but never all at once; not and do it well. One may be able to balance, but one is happier if one accepts unbalance: total dedication at this time to this task, at that time to that one. I've been trying to reassure myself that this is normal and natural, that it does not (or need not) mean a total renunciation of writing and even of professional writing. I hope I can do enough to keep the fire alive while my children are small (children? I have only one, and he's not even out yet) and still be a good, attentive, engaged, present mother to them (him). I hope I will also fulfill the demands of seriousness as a writer, if not while I nurse and teach, if not while I play and pray, if not before I have an empty nest or before I turn 50, then at least before I die. I believe this is possible. I try to believe it, anyway.

And yet at times it still seems so unfair: mountainously, cavernously, cosmically, monumentally unfair; unfair with the white-hot heat one scarcely ever feels again after childhood ends. Why not NOW? I want it NOW. I want not only to write, but to write something good while I am young. I want to do it while my mind is still sharp and my eyes are still clear. I can't be sure that will be true later. Already I feel foggy in the evenings, drained, wiffle-pated. God help me, I'm only 25.

But whence this fear? Tolkien not only wrote, but proved, that the reading of great fantasy can unlock your hoard and let all the jewels and precious ornaments that glimmered in the dark turn into flames and feathers that fly away. In a moment of eucatastrophic terror, you find that the things and thoughts you thought you owned were "no more yours than they were you." Great fantasy does this, I think, because it echoes the experience of great love. Love is the primary eucatastrophe. Love strips us down to who we are, alone, ourselves and nameless. Love renames us. Love destroys us to create us, precisely when we thought our craftedness was most complete.

And when I say, as I have said before, that love is at the heart of vocation (whether with a big or little V), I do not mean love in any floral, decorative sense. I mean the Love that rends the temple curtain from top to bottom. If I did not feel an echo of this love for the profound mysteries of human experience, for the glimmer they reveal of God's Providence, for the beauty of His mind mirrored in the creative capacity of true works of literary art that imitate this experience, I would not want to write. And if I did not feel an echo of this love for particular human persons, for each individual soul and for its unfolding and rejoicing in the presence of other embodied spirits, I would not want to love my husband or make our family.

To be torn between these loves is a terrible thing. I would not wish it on a dog. Yet it is the only terrible thing that makes me truly, deeply happy. It is terrible and beautiful, an army with banners. If it destroys me, it destroys me to create me (I try to believe this).

If this is giving more importance to writing than writing deserves to have in my life, so be it. Maybe I will speak differently after I have seen my child face to face. Maybe not. I don't know. Not knowing scares me, but experience is peeling away this fear, baring me ribbon by ribbon to the air, like the potato I am. It is stripping off not the desire for excellence, but the desire for validation. If by hard work and luck I am privileged to be one of the hundred unknown Dickinsons, if my writing only ever pleases God and myself and perhaps a few friends, was it not enough? The part of love that desires to communicate to as many as it may of course says no. But the key here is "as many as it may." Not all love is for all. Some love is valuable precisely for its rarity, its exclusivity, its particularity. Mother's love is like this, when it is good: even if it encompasses many, it encompasses each one as an individual, not as part of a set primarily valuable for its quantity. May my love -- whether for my babies or my books -- never lose this focused, intense, individual quality. May I never commit the contemporary fallacy of thinking that the answer to my dilemma is to love less, or to love with less particularity or less ferocity. May ninjas nunchuku me in the head if I ever do.

And with that, it's time I went to pay attention to Brian.

[Bernardo]

Two thoughts:

1. These two posts are awesome. Seriously, you ought to consider polishing them into essays and turning them into a sort of conversation for the next issue of DT.

2. I think Katy nailed it when she pointed to love as what underlies all Vocation (or vocation). I had been turning Kate's post over in my head for a while and this is what it seemed to me was missing from her picture. If the primary form our vocations take is related to the family, I think that is only because the family is the primary theater for us to actualize our capacity to love, given our nature. However, because what is at the heart of vocation is love, I do think the concept can accomodate big-V and small-V categories.

[jerry]

Katy: Thanks for your inspiring thoughts.

Does it help knowing you're an editor, whose power to publish the first short story or essay from a new writer, may be the first step towards making that writer a "real, professional" writer? Even when you don't have the energy to write something of your own and get it out there, you can still, in the mean time, help other writers emerge into the world. For what it's worth, I'm grateful for what you do.

[Bernardo]

I'm grateful for what you *all* do: editors and authors alike. Everything you pour out into this just confirms for me further that writing, too, can be a way of giving ourselves, as Katy argues in her "Self-Gift and the Vocation of the Literary Artist" essay. Kate, on the other hand, is more than justified. And, on the other, other hand, I think a lot of us DO need to hear what Mr. Wright has to say: the temptation to style ourselves writers while in truth being little more than dilettantes is big. Sometimes it's comforting to think that you have some "great book" in the works, when you actually never even work on it, even if you have time. I think its that attitude that Mr. Wright is seeking to target. I know that I, for one, need to hear what he says.

I also agree with Katy, though, even though I'm a man. When looking at the future and all the responsibilities it will carry, you begin to wonder whether it will be possible to ever do anything at all. Like her, I do my best to believe that, yes, it will be possible somehow.

I also keep VERY MUCH at the forefront of my mind Chesterton's maxim: "If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing badly."

[meredith]

Yessssssss! So I wasn't the only woman who was rather frosted when she clicked on "Ten Commandments on How to be a Writer" and got "Ten Commandments on How to Be Hemingway." This piece was directed at dudes. My evidence:

Do not use ugly constructions like *"he or she";* it will date your work, *and the cool people will laugh at you.*

Failure to follow the guidelines shows you are a *dude, a tenderfoot, a punk, a novice,* not someone meant to be treated with professional courtesy.

The worst thing you ever wrote will someday, somehow, be some *schoolboy's* favorite story ever.

Do not approach this work with pride or selfishness or any of the other emotions to which *men* of fragile artistic spirits are inclined.

The drill-sergeant tone is something that men respond to better than women do, from what I can tell. Anyway, as someone trying to make her way in poetry, I can safely ignore a few of these commandments. Especially the one about sending out your MSS even if they are bad. Any poet worth her salt should be turning green at the very thought of trying to trick readers into reading crap. Oh yeah, and about inspiration: maybe you don't need it for certain kinds of fiction, but without it you can't do jack in poetry. (Okay, you *can* do jack. But you won't get people to memorize it.) When you can't write awesome poetry, you translate Lucretius or write blah poems until you can write good poems again. (The catch is that you can't live on your poems, even if they are good... this is probably a blessing, because it forces you to hack away at something else. Hack-poems are much less satisfying than hack-fiction.)

[meredith]

What I meant to say before I snarked was this:

Kate, I thought your post was totally righteous.

And Katie, this sentence:

Tolkien not only wrote, but proved, that the reading of great fantasy can unlock your hoard and let all the jewels and precious ornaments that glimmered in the dark turn into flames and feathers that fly away.

makes me want to write a poem. I think that Bernardo's idea of turning this into a conversation in DT is excellent - this is all so provocative and yet so grounded in the toughness of reality. Please, do! I for one would love to see it.

[bluemaydie]

Katy:

I agree with almost everything you wrote, except your use of the word "vocation" (small-v). I think I've been in too many arguments wherein someone seriously argues for there being "extra" Vocations within the Church (singleness or whatever), so I'm a little sensitive. I would use the word "passion" or "calling" or something else to really separate the two. Our Vocation is family, because we are made in the image of a Triune, communal-being God. We are called (vocatum, or some such, in the Latin) to be family because we are called to be completely in the image of God. We are drawn toward other things--other modes of service--because we have individual gifts, adn we try to make them flourish. Alas for ambition, our souls do not depend on our "calling" the way they do on our Vocation (much as it may seem otherwise). Which is what I meant when I talked about sacrificing Vocation for vocation. If I am not a good mother to my children, their ability to relate to God as a child to a parent is made more difficult, or even permanently damaged. To say nothing of their ability to relate to the Church as Mother. But if I do not write a particular story or poem or paid article, meh. Someone else will, and possibly (probably) better than I could. That stings, but it's one more thing (I remind myself, when I'm being very, very good) to offer up.

And that's the deal: God knows what we cannot write. Or more properly speaking, God knows what we choose not to write so as to render a greater service. God knows how much it hurts when a poem or plot line or phrase gets caught in our throat, waiting to be written, and slowly dies in an agony of receding memory, while we change diapers or hold hands or cook dinner or earn our family's daily bread. And I firmly believe--I have to, or I'd go mad--that those sacrifices count as much as stripes from the lash or fasts on bread and water. No other word fits it but mortification.

So, yes, I agree that the two loves--Vocation and vocation (or whatever)--can exist simultaneously. I join you in not wishing the conflict between them on anything. That, as Yosemite Sam says, smarts. And I think each of us wends her (or his) way through that conflict by a different path. Mine, at the moment, is a lot of waiting, a little writing, and a burning resentment that echoes yours. How you will do it (and the personality of your kids will influence this a lot. My son is NOT AT ALL a placid baby. Some are, and you can write while they play.) I don't know.

I'm losing my train of thought now (according to my childbirth instructor, a woman's brain cells shrink while she's pregnant and nursing). I'll probably come back later and write more. Anyway, thank you for your thoughtful replay, and thanks for letting me vent. And I'm totally up for expanding this into real essays. At some point.

Kate

PS--Meredith,

Thanks, I love being totally righteous.

Dena,
I will have to read "Leaf by Niggle." But right now, I'm in the middle of "The Two Towers" (again), so it might be a while.

And somewhere I have a poem on this theme. I'll try to dig it up soon.

[firefolk]

Why do we call it a gift? Really, why? Your grandmother shows up to your sixth birthday party and gives you a cool G.I. Joe figure that you didn't ask for, and just as you're about to get excited about it, she says, "Now, I'll be back in one year and I'll expect a 500-page report in triplicate on how you've used this gift to thwart the plans of Cobra. And if your report doesn't meet my standards--which, incidentally, I'm not even going to tell you what they are--you'll be kicked out of your house, and your mommy and daddy won't love you anymore, and you'll never see your brothers and sisters again." Wow--thanks, Gramma. No, really, thanks a ton. That's swell.

Einstein, Hawking, and Heisenberg working in shifts could not adequately calculate the speed with which I would break that damned toy. But our little present of the writer's calling doesn't break so easily. Believe me, I've tried. Hell, I've sworn off writing for good in this very forum, now that I think of it--and it wasn't the first time. Doesn't make any difference. Technically, I am physically capable of not writing anything; but I'm also technically capable of very slowly pushing a needle into my eyeball, too. It's not going to happen--so, really, why trouble to speak of it as an actual possibility? The writer's calling is not a gift, it's a military assignment. Don't get me wrong, some of the happiest moments in my life have come from it; but that doesn't change the fact.

I sympathize with the mother's plight, although of course I can't empathize. But for whatever it's worth (which is probably not much), the grass is no greener over here. I have lots of free time, and I produce a lot of finished work. And apart from Dappled Things (and a vanity press where you pay them to bind your work, which obviously doesn't count), I've never had anything published. I have literally never received one single penny for anything I've written in my life, apart from an essay I wrote in high school. Does that mean I'm not a writer? I won't condescend to address that question. But I will say this: looking at the stacks of finished work and knowing that there's a whole world of readers out there who will never see any of it--it's one of the worst emotions I've ever felt. And I'm both Irish and a poet, so I'm an emotional guy at the best of times. With no disrespect meant to the Prophet J., raised in a more pious age, it seems to my American ass that "You duped me, O Lord," puts it mildly to the point of tepidity.

And trust me, I know the counter-arguments. I chew them like the dude in the Stride commercial that takes a billy-goat in the business. I know that the works of Shakespeare and Homer will be dust in the wind of the cosmos one day, but that what truly matters in their souls will be remembered for eternity and shared by all in Paradise. I know that my unhappiness can bring grace into my life and others' lives if I offer it up in prayer. I know that plenty of great writers have achieved their success posthumously. Guess how much better this makes me feel. But then, it doesn't matter what I feel. It only matters what I choose to do. So I say my prayers and I cling to my faith and I keep hoping that someday everything will turn around and I'll make a living at this stuff and have a nice family and talented kids and a dog that saves my life when I fall into wells. Who knows. It could happen.

[bluemaydie]

Wow. I'm so glad to know that I'm not the only one Wright's "Commandments" rubbed the wrong way. That's fairly comforting.

Re: Vocations. Hey, we're Catholics here, right? Big-V Vocations are communal, not single, and there are two of them. That's all the Church has ever defined, in spite of the numbers of single Catholics. There's a good theological reason for it: It is not good for the man to be alone. ODing on something would be the ultimate act of singleness, and not beneficial to anyone. And it's not just a woman who is defined by her connections; it's everyone. I think that's my problem with defining writing (or any other activity) as a vocation: people are not necessarily a part of that equation. That's especially true when we take the line that "no one's opinion matters to my vocation." Wright's opinion doesn't, because it has nothing to do with truth. But there are people who's opinion certainly does matter. If my husband tells me I'm a bad wife and mother, that means something. He lives with me, after all; Wright doesn't even know me. If my priest tells me I'm spending too much time writing/cooking/cleaning/whatever, adn not enough time taking care of others, he's probably on to something.

Re: gift.

All I can say, dude, is, "You're right. It sucks to be us."

I think that's where that whole "carrying the cross" bit comes in. Which helps not at all. I know. No, I don't mean to make it seem like my problems are bigger than yours--they're not. Hell, I don't even know your problems. What I'm saying is, selling your writing is not the definition of being a writer. Beyond that, my brain is refusing to go at the moment. Which means it must be time for lunch.

[firefolk]

Eh, it sucks to be everybody. But it's also awesome. I'm prepared to debate the question of whether a talent is a gift or a duty--but that existence as a whole is a gift, is difficult to deny. And like my man says, "we must not complain if the conditions partake in the eccentricities of the gift. We must not look a winged horse in the mouth."

[meredith]

I have been very impressed by this whole discussion/venting session, and I've had the good sense so far to (largely) stay out of the way and not interject my 23-years-old-and-single naivete. But now that we've all blown off some steam (and how it's been building to a head, apparently, all over! Seriously, I've read rants about creative frustration *all* over the interwebs this last week... is there something in the weather?), I want to say a few things.

1. Not everyone gets married, and not all single people end up in religious life. Kate, I know you're trying to steady yourself, but I think you're leaning too hard on the idea of vocation. Don't be so concerned to ground yourself in your vocation to your family that you deny others their "extra" vocations. No one is "extra."

Sometimes I think we forget that vocations are utterly individual things. They can be sorted into categories like marriage, priesthood, religious life; but ultimately no one is called to Marriage - they are called to Mr. Davies or Miss Blomberg - and no one is called to Religious Life - they are called to the Oratory of St. Pancratius, or the Carmel of Our Lady of the Tailors in Little Delving-on-Sea. They will have a particular loving mother-in-law, or a particular sadistic abbess. When the biographer or hagiographer writes them up, it will be the particulars of their lives, rather than the generalities, that are mainly discussed.

Given the amount of real-life angst it causes us, the concept of "vocation" ought to be examined more critically than it often is. When Jesus says "Come, follow me" to the disciples, he doesn't give them a roadmap; they're supposed to follow him around, listen, learn, see what there is to see, do what there is to do - en masse, or two by two... and then there is the parable of the talents, and the (apparently contradictory?) parable of the lilies of the field, with the command to leave tomorrow to look after itself. What I'm trying to say is that there are a lot of ways to think about vocation. Perhaps the difference between vocation and "Vocation" is that professions and careers, while they can be God's will for us and seriously weighty, are not vowed for life. When we marry or otherwise consecrate ourselves, we are swearing life-long fidelity; and if we wantonly abandon our lawful marriage or priesthood or consecrated state, we put ourselves in danger of Hell. For we have broken a very intimate promise. But it is perfectly possible to go promiscuously from teaching to lawyering to writing without perjuring ourselves - although what we do at each stage can be the stuff of salvation or damnation. And I don't think that every human person is bound under pain of sin to make vows. Quite the contrary. And don't forget about your baptismal vows, or the promise of your Confirmation. Aren't those weighty enough for a lifetime?

In sum: I feel for all of you who are young mothers losing your shining words in the laundry and the midnight vigils - and I feel for all of us who suspect, dread, or know that we will never marry or have children. And I want us to be allies, not sources of more irritation and angst for each other.

2. This is related to my thoughts about vocation: Katy, I think you are right about the "seasons." I think that you and Kate should be kind to yourselves as much as possible: wait and see! And in time you may be able to do more than you're now capable of. There just *have* to be tricks and strategies that mothers can use to reserve time for writing, even if it comes in uneven and ragged snatches. They should be able to count on the support of their husbands and their families. When I was little, my mom worked part time as a librarian, so my grandma would be babysitting me and my brother on a regular basis, and I dimly remember sometimes eating Burger King with my dad and brother in the car, waiting for my mom to come out of the library. And you know what? These are great memories! My mom was also blessed to have the support of her sister-in-law, my aunt, who also has three children. They would each take turns watching all six of us so that each mom could get some time for herself. So *breathe,* Katy, *breathe*! You are NOT going to spend the next thirty years without fifteen minutes' quiet, solitary thought. That's not what God asks of any of us.

As bloodless as this may sound, I feel like writing is more compatible with motherhood than most professions. Most obviously because it can be done from home. I seldom think about what it must be like to be a young mother and have a burning desire to do scientific research, heal sick people, or run a high-end patisserie - but there are countless women in such situations, and when I put myself into their shoes I break out in a cold sweat. I realize that my imagination and my sympathy need enlarging. And here's where I come full circle and sink my teeth into the "Ten Commandments" again: women earn about 76 cents to every dollar men earn. Largely because of mommying. There it is in black and white: you know you don't make as much money; real writers make money from their writing; therefore you, chica, will only ever be 3/4 as real as a male writer. No wonder we're pissed off.

All of this makes me realize that I need to do more with the time that has been given to me. I'm single and in grad school, and I have a room of my own and time to think, write and study. I'm only teaching one class. And yet I've been moping about not being able to write poetry! Ever since I was nine I've gotten enough inspirations to let me work slowly but steadily, but for more than a year now I've had *nothing* to start with. I have been trying to figure out what to do, and I've honestly had a hard time doing anything but wishing things would go "back to normal." But perhaps even poetry can't run entirely on grace - maybe it needs me to punch the time clock every day. Maybe I need to treat it, if not like a job, at least like studying. Maybe I need to force myself to write a set number of lines every day. I can't say it doesn't work until I've tried it.

So I know exactly what Dena and firefolk are talking about: sometimes the more time you have, the more difficult it is to structure it. And then the less time you have, the more you get done. Outside of time, society, and biology, there is also the muse to account for. And he/she/it can be bloody heartless.

[meredith]

"But there are people who's opinion certainly does matter. If my husband tells me I'm a bad wife and mother, that means something. He lives with me, after all; Wright doesn't even know me. If my priest tells me I'm spending too much time writing/cooking/cleaning/whatever, adn not enough time taking care of others, he's probably on to something."

Yikes! I know these are merely hypothetical situations, but why go there? Seriously?? Your husband is never going to tell you that you're a bad wife and mother, and as for the idea of a priest telling an Exhausted Catholic Mommy that she spends too much time writing (or cooking and cleaning) - it's enough to turn me into a fire-breathing feminazi!

[bluemaydie]

MEredith--

But those situations are not out of the realm of possibility--It is possible, in fact, to be a bad mother and to neglect people. My own personal opinion of my performance isn't always going to be the best guide. Because it's not solely about me--I have to figure other people into it. I'm not an island.

Re: "extra" vocations. I never, ever used that word. And I have allowed small-v vocations that could be anything. But the Church defines only two big-V Vocations. I didn't make that rule, but I have to--as a baptised and confirmed Catholic--live by it and try to make sense of it. And so does every other baptised and confirmed Catholic.

The thing is, the big-V Vocations are things that complete who we are--not our individuality, but our human nature itself. That can't be done by writing, or teaching, or lawyering on their own. Only if those things are part of a communal relationship made up of service can they help to complete us as people, to fulfill us in our image of the Trinity. No one is extra, because no one can be set aside. Everyone is called to be part of the community or family. So why doesn't everyone get the chance to marry or join a religious community? No idea. But that doesn't let anyone off the hook of serving others and being not alone. If my hubby and kiddos dies tonight, I have to find others to "mother." I have to find another image of the Trinity to be my fulfillment. If they die tonight, that will probably be connected to my parish in some way, at least initially.

Look, I don't mean to sound like a know-it-all, but we can't just throw the Catechism out the window when we find it constricting. These are the answers I've managed to find that make sense, and it's entirely possible that I'm wrong. But I wouldn't be the only one in the Church to be wrong, if that's the case. If our writing is going to be any good, it has to be connected to the Truth. If we throw that out, we're in trouble.

[bluemaydie]

OK, last message from me on this topic, in which I want to address a few things and then bow out (the spirit is willing, but the clock is weak).

1) I would like to apologize if I have offended anyone with my opinions on this topic (writing as vocation and Vocations in general). Honestly, I have been very surprised at the vehement reactions I have garnered here. Please let me make clear that I meant no offense nor wished to harm anyone, and I am sorry if I did so. Please understand, as well, that if I sound callous there is a reason for it. <i>The only thing I have ever wanted to do with my life</i> is not what I am, on most days, <i>supposed</i> to do. On most days, it is impossible without damaging someone. If I sound callous in telling other people, "Writing is no one's vocation," it is because I have hardened myself to a reality I find very unpleasant. (And yet, I have an absolute conviction that it is, in fact, reality.) But I do not mean to wound.

2) I checked the Catechism, and the only mentions of "vocation" I could find are as follows:
A) The religious lives (priesthood, brothers, sisters, hermits, and vowed celibates) are referred to as vocations.
B) Marriage is referred to as a vocation.
C) Love and evangelization are referred to as the vocations of the laity. These seem not to be big-V Vocations, but the small-v vocations in which everyone partakes without vows and without a change of one's state in life. It seems to me that writing (and teaching, lawyering, shoe shining, etc.) are not vocations in themselves, but may be aspects of these broader lay vocations. That is, they can be used to love and evangelize. Which leads me to a final point:

3) The St Catherine of Siena Institute (It's been so long since I went to that website that I don't remember the URL) defines writing as a charism. This, to me, seems a more fitting term for writing than vocation, especially in light of the above. Writing is a specific spiritual gift, and just like tongues and healing et al, it is meant to be used for the service of the Church and the gospel. And like prophesying, it burns in the bones when we hold it in. (Thank you so much, Jeremiah the Prophet, for supplying some of the bitterest phrases in this discussion. We love you, man.) If memory serves, the Siena Institute also lists books on writing as a charism. I don't remember what they are, and I don't have time to check right now because I have to start dinner, but perhaps they could be of use to us (when we have time to read them).

Thank you for the great discussion. Sorry I must bow out, but I'm still interested in reading what everyone has to say on this topic and on vocations in general. I'll be checking periodically, if you're looking for me.

Kate