Posts Tagged ‘I’m a Writer’

Never say never

As I sit here rocking my 3 week old daughter (with my two year old daughter away for the day with her father and grandmother), i was organizing some files and found this essay from 2002, originally published in Metro Pulse. I never could have imagined when I wrote this how radically my life would change in the next decade.

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Friday, November 15, 2002

Emergence

by Katie Allison Granju

Today is my middle child’s seventh birthday, the age at which Swiss child development guru Jean Piaget theorized that children truly leave infancy behind. Last night I sat watching her sleep in her bed, a new kitten snuggled against her cheek. In looking at her, I realized that very little was left physically of the round, soft baby she once was. Now she is long and becoming angular. She has real cheekbones and she sprawls across spaces with fast-growing, strong, tanned limbs all akimbo.

My daughter’s changing shape is yet one more reminder of how different my own life seems lately. This summer I am able to wear whatever I want because for the first time in a decade, I am not pregnant or nursing a baby or little child. At ages 10, 6, and 4, my three children can now stay for several days with a grandparent if I want to go away. They rarely wake at night and I no longer wash a load of diapers each night before I go to bed. I will be 35 years old this fall and it’s clear to me that a certain season of my life is ending and a new one is beginning. I have passed through the intense crucible of mothering infants and very young children and have suddenly emerged on the other side, blinking at the sun and sometimes wondering what to do with myself.

During all those years that I was busy creating and sustaining my babies, I never had time to think much about the fact that my body wasn’t my own. Tiny hands and mouths and voices constantly asked more of me, and most of the time, I enjoyed giving it. Something that no one ever tells you before you have a baby is what a sensuous, tactile experience it is. I once heard a new mother describe her own embarrassing desire to literally lick her newborn all over because the baby smelled and tasted so wonderful. I laughed and nodded in recognition because I had more than once found myself furtively sniffing my own baby’s deliciously naked little body all over like some kind of junkie.

My emergence from the intense gauntlet of early motherhood has been gradual. I didn’t wake up one morning and realize that things had changed. Instead it has been a slow dawning of consciousness; what actually happened is that I woke up one morning and realized that there was no child in the bed with me and that I had slept eight hours straight. Then there was a day recently when all three of my children had been invited to friends’ houses to spend the night. As evening fell, I found myself at a loss. Should I wash my hair and go out to see a band like I would have 10 years ago? Should I try to get some needed grocery shopping done while I had the chance? Should I take a hot bath and read uninterrupted for as long as I liked? Instead I simply draped myself across my bed and without any plan at all, fell into a deep, much needed sleep. When I awoke in the middle of the night, I was momentarily disoriented and alarmed. The room was dark but I could sense that my children were not in the room or even the house. As I gathered my thoughts and remembered that I was alone for the night, I felt a forgotten rush of freedom and pleasure. I took off the clothes in which I had fallen asleep and climbed under the sheets to finish my night’s rest. The cotton felt cool and smooth. When was the last time I had been aware of how good fresh sheets feel against my body? A long time, I realized as I smiled to myself and fell back asleep to dream of things having nothing to do with motherhood.

 

Go read this blog

My sweet friend John Cave Osborne is the father of toddler triplets, the stepfather of an adorable little girl, and an absolutely wonderful writer who just keeps getting better. We actually met about seven or eight years ago when he took a writing class I taught through the University of Tennessee. I realized pretty quickly that he was a better writer than I was, and I’m so glad that he’s now actively writing for public consumption. You can read his stuff at his blog, and you can also order his new book there. This week he’s writing about his older sister’s critical illness with such clarity and compassion that you will feel like you are holding her hand with him. It’s painful and lovely work he’s producing in the midst of his grief.

My thoughts and love are with John and his family as they deal with this incredibly painful and difficult time in their lives.

 

“Comfort” by Ann Hood

I finished the absolutely spellbinding Elizabeth McCracken book (highly recommended – a wonderful book, plus Ms. McCracken sent me an incredibly kind email just as I was reading it) sent to me by my dear friend Laura, and she’s now sent me Comfort, by Ann Hood. I started it last night. (Thank you so much Laura. xo – Katie)

I am reading and writing pretty compulsively right now. It helps. A little.

comfort

 

Yes, I would

I’ve gotten a number of emails asking this question, so I thought I’d answer here: yes, I really, really hope to have the opportunity to tell Henry’s story in book form – leaving a more permanent and lasting legacy of his life and my lessons as a parent from him. In fact, I have never wanted to write something so much before in my life as I want to write Henry’s book.

So if it’s meant to be, it will happen. I hope so.

 

Remembering Henry near and far

Love, love, BIG LOVE to Ayun Halliday and other dear friends who remembered Henry wherever they happened to be today. I will always treasure these photos.


Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

 

The Teenage Boy – Five Years Later

Five years ago I wrote an essay that was published in my friend Andrea Buchanan’s anthology, “It’s a Boy: Women Writers on Raising Sons.” The essay was titled “The Teenage Boy,” and it was about how scary it was for me that H – my oldest – had turned 13, and how I knew that as he grew into adolescence, I would be unable to protect him in the way I had before.

As it turns out, I had no idea how right I was. No idea at all. But reading this essay now makes me wish I could turn back time and get a do-over with him. I wouldn’t make the same mistakes. I would work even harder to protect him. I would do a better job. I wouldn’t let this happen…

But I don’t get a do-over, and neither does he. H and I instead have to live with what is, what was and what will be, whatever that may be.

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The Teenage Boy

by Katie Allison Granju

2005

My eldest child is officially an adolescent. He has put away his action figures and his Legos. He now loves his electric guitar, the band Green Day, and his vintage Ramones t-shirt. He and his middle school friends are starting a band, they say, but thus far, no one can play their instruments very well. Still, he perseveres, diligently plucking out the same chords from Nirvana songs again and again in his bedroom until he’s almost got it right. He reminds me that Sid Vicious and Courtney Love couldn’t play their guitars when they were first in bands either.

“Do you know who those people are, Mom?” he asks, eager to explain if I were to tell him that I didn’t. Sometimes I do encourage him to tell me things I already know because I enjoy his explanations so much.

He suddenly worries about the way he looks more than he did even six months ago, and he takes a loooooong time to get ready for school in the morning. I can’t quite figure this one out, since he wears a uniform, but he insists that it takes time to rumple his khakis and blue oxford button down into the perfect state of insouciance without crossing a line that will cause the dean of students to admonish him to “use an iron next time.”

He has a glorious head of thick, lustrous brown hair—the best in our familial gene pool, as I’ve been telling him for years—and he has let it grow to the very limit of scholastic allowability. It’s collar-grazingly long and perfectly wavy, and it looks like former teen idol Robby Benson’s hair on his best day,circa 1977. It’s so beautiful that I sometimes give it an involuntary run-through with my fingers, the way I couldn’t stop myself from kissing the top of his head over and over when he was a baby. Now, though, he
grimaces when I do this, and then heads back into the bathroom to shake it back into his preferred state of studied disarray.

Unlike all the friends and acquaintances who have warned me that adolescence is the worst part of parenting, I’ve looked forward to this. My son is interesting and self-sufficient and very, very funny, and I like hearing his take on politics and world events. His talents and deepest passions are blossoming, and he surprises me on a regular basis with things he knows or wants to know.

Raising a child is a bit like painstakingly unearthing a precious object over many years. As you carefully chip and brush away,
the object slowly reveals its nuances and contours—some of it comfortingly familiar, but much of it a completely unexpected surprise. The surprises have come more frequently lately.

Along with the delightful parts of early adolescence come its horrors. I remember all too well the acute, existential pain of being thirteen years old. Often, lately, when I see my son’s clear angst at the end of a long, tiring day of navigating the social minefields of junior high, or as he hangs up after a long, mumbled conversation with someone who sounded female when I answered the phone, I long to do something . . . anything to make him feel better.

“She’ll call you back,” I want to tell him. “Really, and someday you won’t even remember her name.”

But when I do say things like this, he doesn’t believe me, and mostly he doesn’t even hear me. It was so much easier when I could gather him up in my arms and rock him and sing to him, and then see him palpably relax and melt into a needed nap as a result of my efforts. We both knew that when he woke up, he would feel all better. The sense of omniscient power that comes with mothering babies and young children was heady for me. I loved having the ability to make the world of someone I loved safe, warm, and intellectually stimulating. Back then, all it took was patience, crayons, and plenty of baby-proofing supplies—like electrical outlet covers. It was easy enough to create our own self-contained happy, happy universe, where he knew that all was right with the world and my worries were minimal.

Now his world is becoming increasingly beyond my control. I can’t prevent cruel kids from saying what they will say or chronically unhappy teachers and coaches from venting their adult pain onto my son. I know that his heart will be broken, sooner rather than later, by some girl who has no idea what she’s doing. I know that far too soon he will see the first of his friends make choices that threaten to ruin their lives and that he too will be faced with these choices.

These are things that I know with a great deal of certainty will happen to my son, and for the most part, they are completely beyond my ability to prevent. But I’ll continue to try. I hope that the years we spent together in the warm cocoon of his early childhood offered him some immunization against the slings and arrows of adolescence. I hope that the slips of the hand that I’ve made in unearthing the man he is becoming haven’t banged him up or scarred him too terribly. Mostly, I hope he will continue to talk to me and tell me or show me what I can do—or not do—to support and guide him in finding his own way. Really, I think that’s increasingly all that’s left for a mother of a teenage boy to do.

Copyright Katie Allison Granju 2005-2010

 

“Instinctive Parenting” by Ada Calhoun

My friend and Babble editor Ada’s fabulous new book is out today. Go buy it! You’ll love it.

adabook

 

What makes for a happy family?

“Having a family is like having a bowling alley installed in your brain.” – Martin Mull

I am working on a feature story for a magazine about what traits and behaviors happy families share. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this myself lately. Is my own family “happy?” By some people’s measures, the answer would be “no.” I continue to have significant struggles understanding the choices my eldest child is making, and we clash over them frequently. My worries about him cause me deep pain on a level I never imagined possible before hitting this part of parenting. And then there is the fact that I am divorced, meaning that J and E (and previously, before he moved out, H) have to shuttle between two houses. The end of my first marriage was indescribably painful – I am forever scarred by it, no matter how much I’ve moved on and made a new life – and the fallout has taken many years to settle. And another factor in the “not happy” column would be that Jon and I have a big family and a lot of responsibilities, so money is always tight and there never seems to be enough of it. Our old house needs a lot of work and we don’t have savings like we should. That’s always stressful.

Despite these things, I would still classify my family as happy. I have a really great marriage and I have four children whom I adore, and who love each other like crazy. Although we bug each other a lot, I am very close to my siblings, and my extended family. I love all my nieces and nephews, and just as I did when I was growing up, my children consider their own siblings and all of their cousins to be their best friends. My children have loving grandparents, both paternal and maternal, and many busybody aunts and uncles keeping a close eye on them. We’re happy. Yeah. We are.

But why? Why do I think of MY family as happy despite some less than perfect circumstances when I know other people who look better on paper, but who – if you asked them – would tell you that their family – both nuclear and extended – “has problems” or even come right out and say that they are unhappy? Is it all an attitude thing? Am I just in denial? I mean, every family has challenges and warts and bruises. No family’s circumstances are perfect. So why do some families let these circumstances define them, while others do not?

I have my own ideas about this set of questions, but I would love to hear your thoughts as well. Do you consider your family happy? What does it even mean to be a “happy family?” Let me know in the comments below.

 

“James Chartrand” & “Men With Pens” – the skeptical feminist in me says “no way”

I don’t read Copyblogger regularly, although I know a lot of folks who do, and who love it.  But today my friend Meagan Francis pointed my attention to a post there by someone who appears to be one of the site’s regular bloggers, someone who goes by “James Chartrand.”

In the post, Chartrand reveals (GASP!) that HE is actually a SHE.

Why has “James Chartrand” kept up this charade of adopting a male online persona rather than revealing herself to be female? In his/her own words:


I had high-quality skills and a good education. I was fast on turnaround and very professional. I hustled and I delivered on my promises, every single time. I worked hard and built the business, putting in long hours and reinvesting a lot of the money I made.

I really, really wanted to make this work.

But I was still having a hard time landing jobs. I was being turned down for gigs I should’ve gotten, for reasons I couldn’t put a finger on.

My pay rate had hit a plateau, too. I knew I should be earning more. Others were, and I soaked up everything they could teach me, but still, there was something strange about it . . .

It wasn’t my skills, it wasn’t my work. So what were those others doing that I wasn’t?

One day, I tossed out a pen name, because I didn’t want to be associated with my current business, the one that was still struggling to grow. I picked a name that sounded to me like it might convey a good business image. Like it might command respect.
My life changed that day

Instantly, jobs became easier to get.

There was no haggling. There were compliments, there was respect. Clients hired me quickly, and when they received their work, they liked it just as quickly. There were fewer requests for revisions — often none at all.

Customer satisfaction shot through the roof. So did my pay rate.

And I was thankful. I finally stopped worrying about how I would feed my girls. We were warm. Well-fed. Safe. No one at school would ever tease my kids about being poor.

I was still bringing in work with the other business, the one I ran under my real name. I was still marketing it. I was still applying for jobs — sometimes for the same jobs that I applied for using my pen name.

I landed clients and got work under both names. But it was much easier to do when I used my pen name.

Understand, I hadn’t advertised more effectively or used social media — I hadn’t figured that part out yet. I was applying in the same places. I was using the same methods. Even the work was the same.

In fact, everything w the same.

Except for the name.

The answer was plain. Without really thinking much about it, I tried an experiment when I chose my new pseudonym:
I became a man (in name only)

Taking a man’s name opened up a new world. It helped me earn double and triple the income of my true name, with the same work and service.

No hassles. Higher acceptance. And gratifying respect for my talents and round-the-clock work ethic.

Business opportunities fell into my lap. People asked for my advice, and they thanked me for it, too.


In other words, this person says that she instantly experienced a much higher level of success as a professional writer/copywriter as soon as she began going by a male “pen name.”

I call baloney, MAJOR baloney on this. This story simply doesn’t add up.  Now it’s possible that the person’s writing work picked up at about the same time that she began using a man’s name as her byline, but if so, that was coincidental. How can I say this with this level of certainty? Well, I can say it because I have made my living to greater or lesser degree (100% for many years and usually at least 20% of my income in any given year) as a published author, freelance writer, editor and copywriter since 1995.  And I am thoroughly female. Furthermore, I have many, many female friends who are also highly accomplished, nationally published freelancers, web designers and copywriters.  And I know a large number of the magazine and website editors who assign work to those of us who are competing for the freelance work that’s out there; at least 65% of them are female.  Last, I myself have held several online production and account executive positions that have involved assigning freelance content, design and online community management work.

Obviously, the fact that I have focused much of my own freelancing over the years in the women’s and parenting categories means that I encounter more female editors and writers, but my own editorial and copywriting work has ranged far beyond these niche areas. I’ve written about the plastics industry, business development, marketing and branding – you name it.  My motto has always pretty much been “WILL WRITE FOR FOOD.”

So I know this business well from all sides, and I’ve been involved in it for a long time;  I can say unequivocally, without hesitation and with great clarity that the type of gender bias this “James Chartrand” describes simply does not exist. Now does that mean that there aren’t a few sexist jerks out there – as there are in any field?  No, there certainly ARE some sexists in the online content and design biz,  but they are incredibly few and far between in what is arguably a female-dominated profession overall.

Another reason that Mr./Ms. Chartrand’s tale doesn’t hold water is that I am not sure how she expects those of us who have done this for a living at the level she claims to be doing it to believe that none of the editors, account execs, clients, other writers, sources, interviewees, etc with whom she has worked on all of this content she claims to be publishing for pay ever want to speak to her by phone. The fact is that even in this age of online everything, the production of editorial content for publication – on the Web or in print – still requires phone contact. Editors want to talk to you by phone. Clients want to meet you. Interviewees won’t always agree to be interviewed via email. Tracking down sources frequently requires a phone call or two. Certainly there are projects where I never use the phone, but just about anytime I work with a new editor or client, at least one phone call is involved, and many interviews still call for picking up the phone.  And if you are making the case that you have ONLY been hired or retained on a content project because the editor, online producer or account exec believes you are a guy, you can’t very well be female when you speak to the sexist pigs on the phone.

Unlike Mr./Ms. Chartrand, who states in her blog post that she “never wanted to be an activist,”  I am a feminist activist. I consider myself an outspoken advocate for pay equity, reproductive rights and gender parity in the workplace. And that’s why it irks me when I read something like this blog post.  While I cannot say for certain that Mr./Ms. Chartrand’s story is untrue – perhaps this is one of those outlier cases that simply doesn’t align with all available evidence – it seems highly, highly unlikely.  My gut feeling is that it’s some kind of attention grab, or that the story has been constructed to support Mr./Ms. Chartrand’s decision to use a pseudonym – a decision that was made and has been retained for reasons other than as an antidote to raging, explicit gender bias, but now requires some more interesting explanation than the actual reason.

If this story isn’t true,  as I suspect, it’s much like a  (far less important, meaningful or impact-laden) fake rape accusation.  It gives ammunition to the anti-feminists of the world who want to discredit the REAL gender bias issues that working women still face today. And that irritates me. I am happy for any freelancer who is able to support her family with her work, as Mr./Ms. Chartrand is apparently able to do.  I suspect, however, that any success she has achieved is due to the quality of her work, and has nothing to do with whether her name is “James” or “Julie” Chartrand.

UPDATE:  In the comments below this post, you will find several readers’ own tales of gender bias in the workplace, as well as a link to an interesting piece in Salon today on L’affaire “James Chartrand”

Let me reiterate, in light of reader’s telling their own tales of workplace sexism, that I am IN NO WAY suggesting that gender bias does not exist in our offices and factories. My point is that this particular tale of gender bias rings false to me.  And I do think that when people make things up, or exaggerate  – if that’s what has happened here – it undermines the hard work many people have done and continue to do all over this country to fight real, genuine sexist inequities in our workplaces.

In re-reading James Chartrand’s post, I again find myself thinking something we sometimes say around Bell Buckle: that dog don’t hunt. I find it particularly interesting that “she” titled her entire website “Men with Pens.”  This indicates to me that the whole gender thing has been an “issue” with this person in a bigger way than just the pseudonym.  I’m just sayin’…

 

I wish I wrote this well

My cousin J, remembering her son on the eve of what would have been his 7th birthday.

Love you, cousins.