There is a voice in my head that tells me I am not good enough. Even if I’d like to argue with it, that little voice shouts me down and so I slam the door and leave that part of my mind alone.

I write things and then I tuck them away for later.

Later I’ll have time,

and inspiration,

and energy,

and ideas.

Not now.

Now is too hard. Why write now when tomorrow is better?

Now is for daydreams, for moments that last a lifetime, for words tumbled and crafted inside of my mind, but not committed to paper.

Being a wordsmith is hard and frequently feels like pulling teeth without anaesthetic. You can’t show someone progress on an idea and sometimes, when I’m daydreaming, trawling for ideas, I wish that I worked in something more tangible than gossamer ideas and fairy dust.

Chasing ideas, I’m wondering why my love is for words, not accounting, or stone masonry.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

***

The InterWebs had gotten hot and sticky and Anna’s hand still throbbed from the bite her Blogroll had given her. While not a nasty bite by any stretch of the imagination, Anna couldn’t seem to find the place in her head where she could erase the bite and move on, and so it continued to hurt.

Susan had brought her into the fold of the personal bloggers a few days ago now and she was slowly settling in. There were a lot of bloggers still racing around and trying to outdo each other, but it wasn’t anything that Anna couldn’t cope with. The pace was less frenzied in this section of the InterWebs and while the advertising continued to flash at her, it didn’t seem quite so bright anymore.

The personal bloggers were an interesting mix of people, some parents and some not. The parents amongst them tended to call themselves Mummyblogger Rejects, which seemed a little harsh to Anna, surely the Mummybloggers didn’t reject anyone? She’d only left because she couldn’t seem to fit in and that was her own issue.

Anna wasn’t sure what she wanted anymore and her grandiose dreams of InterWeb life seemed a very long way away, when compared to the unReality of the situation she was in.

Since she had moved over to the Personal Blogger section of the InterWebs, Anna had felt like she could breathe a little easier. It wasn’t so perfectly shiny and happy over here and there was some grit and substance to the bloggers, which she liked. It suited her here, better than the Mummybloggers had, with their perfect children and smiling personas.

It’s strange though, thought Anna, I’m not sure what is actually different here. The label, yes, the pressure, probably, but these women, they’re all the same really.

Anna was busy pondering this when a group of women ran past her, looking frenzied. She wasn’t quite sure what was happening, when the shouts started.

“BANDWAGON!”

“QUICK, SOMEONE CATCH IT!”

The women jostled her and she found herself being moved along with the group, quite without wanting to. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be trampled.

The shouting started again.

“QUICK QUICK, THERE IT GOES!”

“DID YOU GET IT? DAMMIT, SOMEONE CATCH IT!”

Carefully, Anna maneuvered herself to the side of the crowd, to try and see what was happening. The press of bodies didn’t make this easy and they were running faster and faster. Beside her ran a stocky looking women with dark hair. Anna tugged on her sleeve.

“I’m new here, can you tell me what’s happening?”

The stocky woman looked at Anna, and answered without breaking stride. “It’s the Bandwagon love, we’re trying to catch it.”

Anna wasn’t any less confused. “A bandwagon? But what’s a Bandwagon?”

“You jump on it love, and do things as a group. They’re powerful, Bandwagons are.” The stocky woman put her head down and ran faster.

“But why?” Anna asked.

“Why love? Because we can. Why not? There’s power in groups love, lots of power.”

Without a backwards glance, she pushed through the people in front of her and disappeared.

Anna wasn’t certain this was what she wanted to be doing, but the push and crush of the crowd made it impossible for her to escape.

Suddenly, a giant cry went up from the crowd and the running slowed. It appeared the Bandwagon had been caught.

The excitement in the crowd was palpable and Anna had to fight to not get caught up in the heady rush of peer pressure. The people behind her were pushing forwards and she moved with the crowd, completely trapped now. Keeping her eyes on the backs of the women in front of her, she moved along.

Then she was being helped up into the Bandwagon and even though it looked like she would never fit, a space opened up for her. The stocky woman was sitting across from her.

“I see you made it here okay then love?”

Anna nodded, still out of breath from the chase.

She looked around.

“What are we doing here?” she asked.

“Why, we’re on the Bandwagon love! It’s going to empower us to make changes in the InterWebs and we’ll be able to use it to our advantage!”

“What kinds of changes?” Anna was normally a smart woman, but the Bandwagon jumping confused her.

“Well, this Bandwagon is about fairness for all bloggers. It’s showing us all how to behave, so that we can all get along. Isn’t that just what we need?”

Anna looked away. She didn’t think that this was exactly what she needed.

“Where do Bandwagons come from then?” she asked after a time.

“This one’s Jennifer’s love. She’s had some cracking ideas lately, ways for bloggers to get along and make money and it’s just lovely.”

Anna was even more dubious about the Bandwagon now. The rumours about Jennifer had been steadily growing since she left the Mummyblogger camp – rumours of Jennifer making decisions for the entire community and there was talk of a rethinking how a community works. She wasn’t sure she wanted a Queen in the InterWebs, not even a queen of the relatively small Mummybloggers.

She looked around, trying to work out if she could get off. It looked like there was a path back off to one side, if she could just reach it. Standing up, she braved the crush of sitting people.

“Excuse me, sorry, can I just get through…. thank you so much.”

A few minutes and countless trodden toes later, she was able to climb off the Bandwagon.

Standing in the open air again, she was able to breathe.

Looking around, there seemed to be a few bloggers who had decided that this bandwagon wasn’t for them, or who hadn’t climbed on in the first place. Anna smiled at them and one woman smiled back, before walking over.

“Are you okay? You look a bit shaken.”

Anna laughed. “Yes, I’m fine. My first experience of a Bandwagon, that’s all.”

“Ahhhh.” The woman smiled knowingly. “That’s okay, you get used to them. The key is finding out whether it’s something you truly believe in before you jump on.”

“I know that now” said Anna.

With one last pat on the shoulder, the woman made to walk off.

“You’ll be okay?” she asked.

“Yes, yes, I’ll be fine.” said Anna.

Taking a deep breath, Anna turned around and walked away. Behind her, the Bandwagon trailed off, taking the bloggers with it.

Anna was sure that Bandwagons were perfectly alright for some people, in some cases.

But she just wasn’t sure that they were right for her.

Bad writing is the death of my inspiration. I’m pretty sure trashy novels and I have to break up. Soon.

The air grows cold around her, as she sits outside waiting. Waiting for something else, for something more. Waiting for inspiration to strike, for the nerve to enter her house again and willingly sink herself into chaos.

A small shiver passes through her as she watches the swallows swoop and dive, a mating ritual as old as time. She looks at the sky and wishes for warmth and long hot days.

Outside, she is nothing but herself. No one hiding in her clothes, no demands, no requests. She can be herself, without the suffocating needs of others, without having to mould herself into whatever is needed at the time. A mother, a partner, a nurse, a mediator, a lover. Here, she is herself.

The rain starts, small drops dotting her shirt. She raises her head to the sky and looks at them as they fall, wondering where she went wrong, wondering what happened that she lost herself so badly.

I was more than this.

With the birth of her first child, her identity decreased a little. Strangers addressed her as Mummy and she smiled and nodded. Inside her head she screamed I have a name! I am more than Mummy! I am myself. Why have you forgotten that?

A cry that women have uttered since the dawn of time.

And still, even as she loses her identity, it is never enough. The world tells her what she is doing wrong with a cacophony of sound: you should have stayed home; gone back to work; read them more books; vaccinated; not vaccinated; played them classical music; done more. You’re doing it all wrong.

Being their mother is not enough, the world demands more.

She sits outside, her face turned to the rain.

Just a little longer. I want to be me, for just a few more moments.

As she heads inside again, she breathes deeply and tucks these moments away. These stolen moments that tell her I am more than this moment. I can do this, no matter that it feels like I am drowning.

Allowing her to hold onto her sanity through the worst of times, these are the times she craves.

She steps back inside and welcomes the chaos as it envelopes her.

‘Where have all the writers gone?!’ she cried, clasping her hands together in despair. Frantically she clicked through the blogosphere, looking for writing.

And here is Nancy on her first outing to the ZOO! See her ribbon? Isn’t she cute! one blog screamed at her.

‘Are you a writer?’ she said hopefully.

The blog scoffed at her. ‘No! I am a MOMMYblogger. Hear me ROAR.’

Hastily she skipped away before the poison pen could destroy her.

Then! I spilled red wine ALL over the carpet and OMG I was SO UPSET. BUT! Now, there are these awesome…

‘Are you a writer?’ she asked timidly, a little scared now from her MOMMYblogger experience, but still hopeful.

‘How dare you!’ screeched the second blog, now a little stained with red wine. ‘Compare ME? To a penniless writer? Of course I’m not a writer! I’m a reviewer. Do you need anything reviewed? I can do it, you just need to send it to me, along with a second sample for me to give away…’

Frantically she pressed her back button, only to be faced with the MOMMYblogger again.

Home! Home! Home! Three times she clicked her home button and luckily, her home page loaded quickly. The relative safety of Google sat looking at her.

One last try she thought. Or maybe two. Surely there are writers out there somewhere?

A third time she clicked.

I’m so lonely. She read. So lonely. The baby isn’t any company and I’m stuck at home all day changing nappies. Didn’t I used to be a human being too? Worthy? Now who am I…

Carefully she asked ‘Are you a writer?’

The blog looked at her sadly. ‘No. I am not a writer. I am merely journaling my days as a mother, so that when my daughter has children she can read it. I am not a writer.’

Sad now, the woman clicked away.

One last try she thought.

And there I stood, surrounded by emptiness, thoughts running through my head…

‘Excuse me.’ she said. ‘But I couldn’t help noticing you. Are you a writer!’

‘Of course I am!’ the blog scoffed. Then carefully ‘why?’

‘Well because I would like to be a writer too.’

The blog clapped it’s hands. ‘OH GOOD! We need more writers here in the blogosphere. Come with me. I’ll show you how to be a writer.’

The woman followed the blog, up hill and down dale, through Google and back out the other side. Finally, they stood in front of a small house. The blog walked up to the door and knocked. The door opened.

‘Oh! It’s you. Come in, come in. Who have you brought? Never mind. We need all the writers we can get.’

The woman followed the two blogs through the house, until they came to a room filled with tiny little people. A baby gate on the door kept them inside. The noise was deafening, nearly a hundred little people clamouring to be heard over one another.

The blog looked at the woman.

‘Take out your writer.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Your writer. Take it out!’

The woman didn’t understand. She wanted to be a writer, not get rid of her writer.

‘I don’t understand.’

The blog sighed. ‘Your inner writer. Take it out.’

‘But I don’t know how.’

The blog looked at her sharply. ‘You don’t know how?’

‘No.’

‘Reach into your soul. Inside you will find a little writer. Pull it out. This is the only way to becoming one of us.’

The woman did. Reaching into her soul, she felt around until she could feel her little writer. Tugging, she pulled.

It hurt. Oh how it hurt, but she pulled anyway. If this was the only way, then she was determined to do it too. She felt something inside her give and carefully, she extracted a tiny little caricature of herself.

The blog gasped. ‘Oh the poor little dear! Look at how sick she is. You’ve been neglecting her!’

The woman was taken aback. ‘No I haven’t. I’ve been trying to be a writer.’

‘Oh but you’ve been doing it all wrong and look how badly you’ve messed it up. It’s going to take weeks before you can write anything of your own.’

The woman looked at her little writer sadly.

‘Now, give her to the Nanny.’

‘What?!’

‘Give your writer to the Nanny! She will look after her for you until she is strong and well.’

Carefully, the woman handed her writer over to the Nanny. The Nanny bustled away with the writer curled in her hands.

‘Come and have a cup of tea’ the blog said.

The woman felt empty inside now but she agreed. Seating herself, she peppered the blog with questions.

‘Can I visit?’

‘No. Not for a while. Your writer needs time alone, without you bothering it. It needs to be with other writers.’

‘But I can’t leave her alone! She needs me. It was hard enough to hand her over to the Nanny and walk away. You can’t expect me to go away and not visit.’ Tears streamed down her face. The emptiness inside grew bigger and bigger.

‘What she needs is a group of other writers to play with. She needs our group exercises and to build her trust in writing again. Don’t worry, she will be safe and supported here. We will keep her healthy and strong. We won’t let anyone criticise her.’

The woman sniffed, still not convinced this was the only way to becoming a writer.

‘What do you do here?’

‘Oh everything.’ the blog announced. ‘We do group exercises, we allow your writer to stretch her wings without any criticism, we foster trust and we teach your writer how to network.’

‘But what about the technical skills of writing? Do you teach those?’

‘Of course not!’ the blog scoffed. ‘Who needs technical skills when there is a group of supportive writers to watch your back?’

‘I thought you were going to teach her how to be a writer!’

‘We are. Don’t fuss your pretty little head. When she comes back to you, she will be able to write.’

‘Will it be any good though? The writing?’

The blog looked at the woman, hard. ‘Good is subjective though, isn’t it. As long as the other writers think she is good, she will be fine.’

‘You said there were group exercises. What are they?’

‘We give out a topic and all the writers are expected to write on that topic. Then we run around and read everyone’s writing and make sure that the writers have done it properly, to our standards.’

‘I think I read some of those, a few weeks back. They all sounded the same.’

The woman sipped at her cup of tea and looked at the blog. Her advertising had started to flash a little faster now with all these questions.

‘Good. That’s how they know they’re doing it right.’

‘But I don’t want my writer to sound like other writers.’

‘I’m sorry. This is the only way to become a writer and not be merely a blogger.’ The blog’s advertising flashed dangerously now.

The woman finished the last of her tea and stood up.

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can be part of this. I want to be my own writer, not be part of your giant writer.’

The blog looked shocked. ‘Without us, you’ll be just a blogger!’

The woman thought about it. ‘I think I can handle that.’ She walked across the hall to the room filled with other people’s writers. In the corner, her’s sat huddled alone. Stepping over the gate, she rushed over to it and picked it up.

‘Poor little pet’ she murmured. ‘I’m sorry, I should have left you how you were. You don’t want to sound like everyone else, do you.’ Her writer shook her head sadly.

The woman stepped back over the gate, careful not to crush anyone else’s writer. Stepping lightly now, she left the house with the writers and the blogs clamouring after her.

‘The cheek! To think she can get along without us!’

She smiled before tucking her writer back into her soul. Her empty feeling dissipated and she could almost feel her writer snuggle back down.

Ideas rushed into her head as she made her way home again and she thought about paragraphs she could write when she got home. She knew now where all the writers had gone and she didn’t want to be one of them.

A faint cry of ‘You’re doing it ALL WRONG!’ floated to her ears.

She didn’t care. Right or wrong, she was doing this her way.

No one else mattered.

Give me your dark and twisted. Share with me your secrets. Bare your soul and bleed before me. Paint the world with your pain. Tear open your chest and show me how it feels. Drive your hands inside the cavity and feel for your heartbeat. Is it still there?

I don’t want to.

Show me how you hurt. Point to the pain and we’ll see how it looks. I’ll provide you with a microscope and we can examine it together. We can paw through the blood, looking for pieces left intact. We will sort you and break you. We can put you together backwards again. You will be broken, but you will be perfect.

Go away.

Dredge your insides for emotion. Bite upon it, making the pain greater. Does it still hurt? What about if I poke here? Show me. Splash it across the screen for the world to read. Scream your agony, screech your grief. Make the world hurt like you hurt.

I can’t do this.

Share with me your pain. Let me search through your insides looking for ways to make you shatter. Let me hurt you. You’ll feel better. I promise.

I’m escaping.

I walk, slowly and carefully. I think about where I will place each foot, moving consciously. I tread lightly on the outside of each foot.

I walk barefoot through the grass. Dew clings to my feet and the stars sit lightly above my head. The moon is almost full and I walk underneath it, ghostlike.

The silence is palpable out here. Like the dark, it coats everything. I make no noise as I walk to the fenceline and stand, watching the sky. The glow from the city sits above the horizon and in the distance, a truck roars past. I hear my front door click as my partner steps outside for a cigarette.

With that click I come back to myself and I realise how cold I am. Stepping gingerly I head back to the house.

What were you doing?

Nothing. Just watching.

Oh. It’s cold out here.

Yes. I’m going inside now.

I love you.

I love you too.

The door clicks behind me and I step inside.

Three months ago, to the day, she died.

We sat in the room, a group of strong women and vowed not to leave until it was over. We drew strength from each other, in the being there together. We sat and loved the one of us who was failing, who wouldn’t make it to the evening. My brother and uncle joined us and added to our strength.

Her breathing, which had been laboured all day, got raspier and she pulled the oxygen mask off her face. Her hands flailed a little, unsure of her place anymore. We stood around her, an armoured guard; a support team. Our backs to the world we circled her and kept her safe. Holding hands we showed her that it was safe to leave us; that we would be okay in her absence. We lied of course, but that is what you do when someone is dying. You tell them what they need to hear to be at peace.

She turned towards her mother and looking at her, she stopped breathing. Collectively we breathed out together.

Her eyes glazed over and we said stupid things

It’s over

Peaceful

No more pain

as our eyes dripped tears and we knew that we were lying to ourselves, to each other.

***

Mum and I told her we loved her, shortly before she drew her last breath. I will be forever grateful for that, along with the hours preceding when I sat holding her hand.

It was not an easy goodbye. Goodbyes rarely are.

Somewhere, a bot trawls this site. Deeming it not spam, a little switch is flicked and suddenly I’m searchable. My name, linked to my writing, out there on the internet.

I imagine old school friends randomly Googling for me and pulling up this site. What would they think? But then, maybe I’m the only one who Googles for people to see what shows up.

I remind myself to breathe, this is what I wanted. A personal side of the professional me. A declaration that I am a writer. This is what I do, I write.

***

Sitting down at my laptop, I open my word document and sit down to write. Two sentences in, my daughter asks for food and my son gets himself stuck under the futon. I press save and sighing, I close my laptop. Working with the children around is impossible.

I put my computer away and grab some food. Laying down on the floor we all eat together. The children take turns clambering over me and soon I’m covered in sticky kisses and drool.

It’s not the work I’d intending on doing, but it’s my job nonetheless. I enjoy this as much as I enjoy the silence of writing.

***

Blearily I stumble out of bed, summoned by the baby’s cries. I trip over imaginary things as I walk into his bedroom and lift him up for a feed. He snuggles down into my arms and snuffles at my breast before settling in for a feed. His eyes shut almost instantly and I contort myself towards the nightlight to read my watch.

5.30am

I should stay awake and work while the children are sleeping.

I really should.

My head drops forwards and I doze lightly while he feeds. I’m still incredibly tired.

The baby snuffles and sighs deeply waking me up. His feed finished I put him back down and leave the room.

Stumbling again, I head back to bed. The warmth of my partner envelopes me as I snuggle into his back. He mumbles a little and then lets me rest my cold feet against his legs. He’s nice like that when he’s asleep. For a moment, I regret that I’m not working. Only for a moment though.

My pillows are soft and soon my feet will defrost. Giving into my need for more rest, I let sleep claim me.

Soon both children will be awake and I can attempt to work through breakfast.

Up until the point when they need me and I end up on the floor, covered in sticky kisses and drool.

Again.

As the baby falls asleep I run myself a bath. The sound of the pump thrums against the faint gurgles he makes in his pram. I wonder if I’m setting him up for more sleep issues, letting him fall asleep where he will, then content myself with the thought at least he is falling asleep for me. even if it isn’t in his cot.

The bath finishes as Isaac closes his eyes. I hold my breath and quickly transfer him to his cot, swaddled and snuggled. He opens sleepy eyes to look at me and inside I panic. On the outside, I lift his blanket to his cheek and he snuggles down, content that he is safe. His eyes shut again and I turn and walk away.

Through the lounge room I walk, shedding clothes and layers of myself. The children are asleep, the curtains are shut. No one here to see except for me and Nathan. I think he watches me walk away, but I don’t turn around. I’m intent on my bath.

I flick my hair into a bun and turn the heater on. A quick check tells me that the water is the correct temperature.

It’s been a busy weekend I think as I slide under the warm water. Amy turned three, I cried until I couldn’t breathe and I had a good time. All rolled up in two days.

I cock my head to the side, listening for the sound of my children. Nothing. As it should be. I start to relax, even though I never stop listening.

It’s been a long time since I had a bath. I have to gauge pain against the possibility of my body temperature rising causing nausea and the nausea generally wins hands down. This time I have enough anti-nausea tablets to see me through a temperature rise and the pain is enough that I need to soak.

I open my book and start to read. The last time I read a book in the bath was when I was living with Nan. Memories assault me before I shut them out and absorb myself in my book.

Slowly the bath water cools.

As my feet start to get cold, I put my book down. I look around for the face washer I am certain I grabbed, only to find it sitting a few metres away. I grabbed it, I just didn’t leave it within reach. Stupid brain fog. In one swift movement I stand and water streams away. Goosebumps rise as I hurry to grab the face washer and my razor. With a breath of relief I sink myself back under the water, only to discover I’m still cold. I hesitate over running more hot water and then bring myself back to the present, where it’s my water and I’m the adult. I don’t need to ask permission as I turn on the tap.

It’s a struggle, my hands are not as strong as they used to be. I have to use two hands, despite me being the person to tighten them last. If Nathan turns them off I’ve no hope of getting them on again alone.

Warm again, I wash my face and then pick up my razor. I start at the bottom of my legs, shaving all the way up. I count bruises as I go. By the time I get to twenty, I give up. How many there are today doesn’t matter. New ones will just appear to replace the old.

My mind wanders as I finish behind one knee and I cut myself. I can never shave my legs without cutting myself these days. I sink my leg back under the water, not caring anymore about bits I might have missed. This bath is meant to be about relaxation, not counting my flaws.

I contemplate laying in the bath a little longer, but I can’t do it. Not now that I’ve shaved my legs. I stand and grab my towel. I walk out to the fireplace, ignoring the [tiny] mirror as I go. I’m relaxed. No need to stress myself out again with bad skin and bags under my eyes.

It’s warm in front of the fire as I dry myself and get dressed.

I must do this more often.

But knowing me, I won’t. Baths are a treat. A side effect of the huge amounts of rain we’ve been having, I can afford to waste the water to soak myself.

I give myself a shake to make sure everything is where it should be. My ankles have been slipping lately and they need a little wiggle to keep them in place. I stand in front of the fire for a few more moments before kissing Nathan and heading to bed with my book.

10 minutes later, Isaac wakes for his first feed of the night. But, such is life.