I’ve come to comprehend, at last, why necessity is referred to as invention’s “mother.” There are few people on earth in as constant a state of need as those who’ve chosen to mother someone. Mothering forces the hand of creativity. Mothers* wrestle with angels and refuse to let go before they are blessed with something — either an actual resource or the means by which to create one themselves. We also wrestle with demons — not just our own but those that would presume to stalk our children. We feel responsible for everything and for distributing everything. When a thing fails, we stay up latest taking stock. When a thing succeeds, it is often because we have risen early to ensure that it would.
This is all to say: I create much more as a mother than I felt capable of creating before I became one. This is, in part, because I no longer have time to consider whether I’m capable of a thing before I undertake it. Often, I simply have to move and make that assessment later; now, too much depends on my movement.
As a writer, the only difference between my childless self and my mothering one is that now, I need what writing well can provide. It isn’t a lofty ideal, an untethered desire. I had endless time for crippling insecurity before I had another person to support. I could put off writing or set myself adrift on a sea of incomplete ideas because when I was alone, writing wasn’t anchored in need. It did it as I worked other jobs. I treated it like a side gig.
Now? I need the capital. I need the community. I need the insight. And I need the empathy. All of it, all of it, is necessary for me to be the best mother I can be. And that makes me fastidious.
Bellow is an invention that comes from this same chamber of need. Writing as a single mother may force greater productivity, but it also seems to insist on a greater sense of isolation.
“I love solitude but I prize it most when company is available.” — Saul Bellow
I’ve written about this — and so have many others — but there are certain creative spaces that will be restricted to you with a baby or small child in tow. And they’re usually the spaces you need most: retreat spaces, residency sites, travel grant destinations, rooftop networking events, even bars (where readings are being held).
These, of course, are not problems specific to new parents. As a culture we are increasingly of how lack of access perpetuates inequality and works as a barrier to success. We are even beginning to parse what that means for writers, acknowledging the difficulty of becoming successful at it without access to the reservoirs of money and free or reduced-income housing that will allow new writers to work for pennies until they’re put on.
So few are put on — even as they burn through their meager savings and burn bridges with housemates, family and friends, doggedly insisting that a break is just around the corner. It must be. We’re good at what we do.
The more we say it, the reedier our voices feel and the more the sound echoes. Fewer supporters, fewer sound barriers.
Enter Bellow. It’s a very basic setup. All you need is a laptop with a webcam, a strong microphone, either internal or external, and wifi. You need relative privacy or a quiet background and earbuds. And you need your original work.
Each month, a small group of writers will meet on the third Wednesday at 8 PM Eastern and they’ll share their work — not just with each other — but with whomever in the world wants to watch them. We get to witness the facial expressions, nervous ticks and out-loud negotiations you’d make if you were in a dimly lit room in front of an intimate audience.
But you don’t need money, transportation, or even a lot of free time to connect with your crowd. It’s all about raising your voice and finding out who-all will hear you.
“I want to tell you, don’t marry suffering. Some people do. They get married to it, and sleep and eat together, just as husband and wife. If they go with joy they think it’s adultery.” — Saul Bellow
So many writers, both emerging and established, know what it’s like to be invited to speak at a venue for free and to not have enough gas to get there. We know what it is to sit at home while friends text group-selfies from the pricey writing conference we couldn’t attend. We even know how to look like ethereal, like we’re above commerce and capitalism, when our ability to publish a certain number of freelance writing pieces a month is the only thing standing between us and eviction.
It isn’t much, Bellow. It may not help you make rent — at least not directly — but I’m hoping it becomes a place of understanding, encouragement and opportunity. These are the environs that even playing fields.
Come play with us. Bellow across the fields every third Wednesday of every month at 8 PM EST via Google Hangouts On Air. Connect with is there by adding our Google+ page to your circles and live-tweeting (@bellowseries) while you watch each webcast.
Bringing people into the here-and-now. The real universe. That’s the present moment. The past is no good to us. The future is full of anxiety. Only the present is real–the here-and-now. — Saul Bellow
*I realize I made some generalizations about mothers in the opening paragraph. I’m usually good about not making blanket statements or applying caveats. But um. The best I can do here is: #NotAllMothers?
3 responses to “Bellow.”
Wow. And right when I had convinced myself that I was fine in my bubble… Bellow. A safe haven for those without. I’m looking forward to tuning in and possibly participating.
[…] Stacia L. Brown (@slb79), read about the inspiration for this virtual literary reading series here, and visit the websites of this month’s readers, Nichole Perkins (@tnwhiskeywoman) and […]
[…] today’s edition of #PostBourgieEverywhere, I started an online literary reading series called Bellow, and it launched this week with my fellow PB-ers Joshunda Sanders and Nichole Perkins as guests. […]