It’s hard to be a good writer. It’s hard to be a good daddy, too. I usually feel that I am failing at one of them. Sometimes, I feel like I’m failing at both.
I have never been someone who spends a great deal of time writing. I write for about two hours at a stretch, usually twice a week. What allows that system to work is that I am writing all the time in my head. The writing pot simmers at the back of my consciousness all the livelong day. So when I sit down to write, it’s mostly done. I just have to work it out technically and get it on the page.
Since the birth of my son, Henry, I have been writing a new play. It’s been rough going. While I can still find the four hours a week to write in the post-Henry world (though it means I don’t get out much), what I can’t do is keep the play in my head all the time. The pot goes cold for long stretches. This often makes sitting down to write a frustrating experience. I spend half my time re-reading the play, trying to relearn its rhythms. After not too long, fatigue sets in and I have to stop.
The other night I brought a scene from my play into Naked Angels’ reading series Tuesdays at 9. I have a very specific idea for how this play, called Another Girl, should feel and sound. This picture is very clear in my mind, but it always falls apart when I try to explain it.
But on this night, in this place, I didn’t have to explain it. For there it was -- funny, vibrant, surprising. Pathos and humor bumped up against each other, keeping actors and audience just slightly and happily off-balance. It was fresh and energizing. The wonderful actors, PJ Sosko and Andrea Cirie, let the scene play out simply and beautifully.
When the scene was over, I knew something had happened. People I didn’t know came up to ask me about the play. My friends, including my wonderful actors, asked me to go out for a drink. But I had to go home. My baby is an early riser, and I need sleep.
I went to bed happy.
About 2AM I heard a cry. Usually when Henry cries at night, we let it go for five minutes. This gives him a chance to put himself back to sleep, which he almost always does. But this cry was different (parents understand their children’s cries the way Eskimos understand snow). His cry said “Help me!” So I rushed in.
If not for Henry’s distress, the scene would have been comic. My beloved little boy had somehow managed to wedge his leg in between the bars of his crib all the way up to the middle of his thigh. I pulled him out (it took two hands), but he continued to cry. He was frightened, tossing his head from side to side.
I know from experience what this means. It means his crying has become self-perpetuating. He is freaked out, and he is freaked out by how freaked out he is. So I picked him up, put his face right in front of mine, and said “Henry! Henry! It’s Daddy! Look! It’s Daddy!”
He stopped thrashing. He looked me in the eye. He sighed. He leaned his head against my shoulder with a slight whimper. I sang “Sweet Baby James” to him. I laid him down in his crib as I sang, kissing his head and neck. When I left, he started to cry. But it was a different cry. It translates roughly as, “I still don’t want you to go!” Inside of two minutes, it stopped. He was asleep.
I crawled into bed. My wife rolled over and patted me on the back. In her sleepy drawl, she said, “Good job.”
Good writer. Good daddy. Good job.
A good night.
