People ask me what I do. Sometimes, I find myself groping for an answer. I will admit to having referred to myself as a “writer.” That simple answer works as well as “editor” or “late-in-life mommy” or “that 40-something woman married to that 30-something guy.”
I have, in fact, been published on numerous occasions, so you would think I must find time to write on a regular basis. But there are so many other things I do that define me.
I wash dishes.
While washing dishes I think about writing: I work out a phrase, a convoluted plot, a deep essay topic and think this works, this doesn’t. Then, frustratingly, I forget it entirely once my hands are dry. Or I get stuck in memory: There was a time when I did not wash dishes, at least not so regularly, so thoroughly. He did it, usually shirtless. That was something to see—he was only 24 then, with dark curls and pale smooth skin. He always cleaned up after our meals, which were really more like snacks, nutritional breaks, literal refreshments between athletically sexual bouts. That was a few years ago. Now, before breakfast, he is off diligently supporting our little family, and I am the one washing the dishes—caked with oatmeal, peanut butter, macaroni and cheese. I’m as worn out as I was before, but it’s just not sexy anymore.
I entertain my son.
These days, I find myself reading, endlessly, but they are not the novels and short pieces of fiction that I’m normally drawn to. My son’s bedtime stories are silly, overly simple, or way too long for that time of day. But, at the end, I sometimes find myself fascinated by the shortest of author bios that are occasionally found at the back of children’s picture books. I marvel over how a real person can make a living (do they?) writing six words to a page, exploring the inner worlds of toads, hares, robots, or monsters. I love most of the tales my growing son and I read together, him spilling out of my lap (nearly too big, I can’t help thinking every time), me sinking ever deeper in the red chair.
I listen to music.
Music—radio in particular—is my daytime drug. I can hook my mind to a song so good that the lyrics, the beat, or both take me out of my current persona and into a world of self-indulgence, debauchery, singlehood, and no regrets. I can close my eyes and bang my head, exorcising some of my daily anger. I can sing along and imagine the karaoke audience hearing me, really getting me. Or, I get a crush on a singer and picture the live performances I most certainly won’t find the time to attend, missing the chance to flaunt my cleavage at the stage like the old days. I churn up whole alternate lives where I chose a path of musical creativity (didn’t put down the violin, but also picked up a guitar or learned piano) and was rewarded with a spotlight and critical acclaim. The DJ feeds my need for community, even if he’s only a chummy voice over the airwaves commenting on the weather, the day of the week, the song we both just listened to together.
I don’t finish.
Sometimes, I really get going writing—only to find myself on the other end of an em-dash. What is it that I want to say as a comment on my life? Without a “happy” ending, are all of my beginnings false starts? No, that can’t be true; writing is still vital for me, and people still ask me what I do. But there are so many things that define me right now. Unexpectedly, in my mid-40s, and for the foreseeable future, motherhood dictates the list.
Longtime freelance writer Joely Johnson Mork, 45, never expected to find herself married, and certainly not to a much younger man. Never say never! She became a mother at 42 and finds parenting her growing son a mindblowing blend of challenges and joys every single day. Mork lives with her family in Seattle.