Here, I have a picture of it:

Looks innocent, doesn’t it? Well, looks can be deceiving. In that bag were all our hopes, all our fears, all our future. One way or another, our future lives were going to be decided by what was in that bag, or one very much like it.

It’s the bag that contains all the IVF medicines and instructions, because on the 14th of February 2011, we began cycle one of IVF. It failed. Failure is the statistical norm for IVF cycles. The odds are decidedly not in your favour. But you go in anyway and you hope your little guts out and you just promise yourself you’ll deal with whatever comes. You try not to cling onto your hopes too much, so as to make the disappointments easier to bare, but you can’t help it.

It’s a bizarre experience, IVF. It takes up every ounce of your concentration and focus and emotional space, yet at the same time you typically don’t tell anyone else about it, so it’s this huge momentous life-changing thing happening all below the surface. Not that it was entirely that way with us. We were telling everybody about it, family, friends, strangers we bumped into at the supermarket, the world at large.

Hey, I was blogging it. Sharing with the world one of the most invasive, intimate, confusing and expensive medical experiences you can have.

Here, go have a read, the whole story’s here, from start to finish: Fun With IVF

So anyway. Cycle one failed. All our little embryos arrested sometime before day 3. And it was perhaps the most devastating thing I’ve ever experienced. But we weren’t going to give up  yet and cycle two kick-started somewhere around April. Again our little embryos were not making it beyond day two, except for one. Just one. One keen six cell embryo. Our precious little Six Cell.

Today, our Six Cell turns 1. Luke Edward was born on the 8^th of February 2012.

So Happy birthday, my son. I’m not sure you’ll ever really understand just how much we went through to get you. But you don’t need to. You already know how much you are loved and adored. How much you are the centre of our lives and our world. You’re here with us and that’s all that matters now.

I hadn’t wanted to go. Not because I didn’t want to attend my friend’s birthday celebrations, but simply because I didn’t know how to leave the house yet. I had a three week old baby and I was lost in a world turned upside down, with little sleep and no experience in what I was doing, or indeed, confidence in myself to do it, either.

And I knew I would have to feed him there. So that being the case, I also knew I simply couldn’t go.

Luckily, darling beloved, who has had two children before, waved aside my fears, bundled myself and baby up into the car, and off we went anyway. It was terrifying. But the lighting was party-lights dim and people smiled and cooed over the baby and I found myself a dark corner to set up camp in and, with a deep breath, when he next asked for it – and believe me, back then, my baby was looking for feeding every 1-2 hours – I fed my baby.

Struggling to slip out a boob from a maternity-friendly top – my wardrobe then, as now, consists of clothes solely chosen for this purpose – and get the baby to latch onto it, all without showing too much flesh and breaking any social taboos. Which is not easy when you’re a first time mother struggling to figure out how to breastfeed properly and it still takes several goes to latch the baby on, plus it’s still painful from the cracked nipples which haven’t healed yet, and you’re not sure if you’ve got enough milk yet, and the whole thing is just confusing and scary and you’re just not sure what you’re doing at all.

But I did it. I fed him successfully, in public. And best of all, nobody battered an eyelid. I felt a bit of confidence build.

A while later, another couple with a baby arrived at the party. But when that mother fed her baby, she covered the both of them in “a modesty sheet”. That is, a large sheet she draped over both herself and the baby while breastfeeding. Yes, sitting there in the corner of the room, covered in a sheet.

I freaked out. Was I meant to be sitting under a sheet when I fed my baby too? Was that the social etiquette of public breastfeeding? Had I offended half the party by feeding without one? Could I just go home now and die of shame?

Look, I was full of post-partum hormones and severely sleep deprived, or else I might have approached the situation a bit more rationally. But the fact remains – I knew I had every legal right to breastfeed my baby whenever and wherever I needed to. And I knew I personally supported the rights of women to breastfeed their babies wherever and whenever. But I wasn’t sure of the accepted social etiquette and in my vulnerable state, I was terrified of committing some act of social taboo, when all I really wanted to do was feed my baby, and if possible, not be trapped inside the house going stir crazy any longer also would be nice.

This is why the opinions of older, privileged male television commentators, publicly expressed to a very large audience, absolutely matter. Because all politics of the situation aside – and the politics of it is important, but that’s not what I’m talking about here – it has a very real, very personal impact. A very negative impact.

What new mothers need most is support and encouragement. What the recent airing of opinion that breastfeeding mothers need to be more ‘discrete’ and ‘classy’ about it (anyone care to define discrete or classy in this context?) actually does is send the message to all mothers that public breastfeeding is still something you can only do if you’re prepared to stand up to wide-ranging criticism, social disapproval and the expectation of shame.

In reality, it’s not. I have been breastfeeding for almost a year now, so I’m a lot more experienced, comfortable and emotionally stronger than I was. In the last 11 months, I have found myself having to breastfeed in places as diverse as food courts, the pub, the library, many cafes, many more parks, doctor’s waiting rooms, restaurants, other people’s houses, on a peak hour train, and any number of other places that I’ve forgotten. Sometimes I was nervous doing it. Sometimes I didn’t think twice. Never did I have a choice – my baby was hungry, he needed to eat. And never did I use a modesty sheet, because for one, I felt ridiculous having to hide beneath a sheet when out in public, not to mention it would call far more attention to me than otherwise, and two, I don’t think my baby deserves having a sheet draped over him just because he needs to eat. Anyway, he would just rip it off, regardless.

And not once in that time has anybody shown me any sign of offence or made me feel that I should be ashamed. Maybe somebody thought it. Maybe somebody tut-tutted to themselves. But if so, they kept it quiet and to themselves, and nobody has ever shown me any sign of it. I hope – no, I believe, because I have faith in people – that that’s because almost everybody just accepts breastfeeding as normal and doesn’t care a jot about it. And if there are one or two out there who have felt uncomfortable seeing my baby feed, then I hope – no I believe – that they stayed silent about it because they knew if they tried to shame me for doing it, then they would have been shouted down and shamed themselves, instead. Because it is fully socially acceptable for mothers to feed their baby’s wherever and whenever they need to.

This is why opinions publicly aired on television and in major newspapers matter.

This is why public nurse-ins matter, such as those held at the television studios where the older male commentator first aired his distaste for indiscreet public breastfeeding, however its defined, and at the public pool where the breastfeeding mother was asked to leave. Because when negative opinions that can have a very real, very negative impact on new mothers trying to breastfeed are made so publicly like that, it is important to counter-act those opinions. For everyone else to stand up and say – it is okay to breastfeed in public and those negative opinions judging you are actually what are socially unacceptable, not you.

New mothers need support. And it takes guts, sometimes, to breastfeed in public, when you know you have to, when you don’t have a choice, because baby is hungry and you need to feed him or her. Especially when you’re new it to and you don’t have the confidence or the emotional space yet to deal with standing up against an imagined court of public opinion.

I have never known any mother who does not do her absolute best to be as discrete as humanly possible about breastfeeding in public. Not a single one. Yet as this article in The Conversation shows, one of the biggest reasons woman stop breastfeeding so much earlier than modern medical advice is because of the feelings of shame and discomfort over breastfeeding in public.

This is why opinions publicly aired matter. This is why nurse-ins matter when negative opinions are aired, to show public breastfeeding is normal, healthy and perfectly fine. This is why this is still an issue.

And this is why the most important thing we can do is simply go on feeding our babies, wherever and whenever we may be, and to go on just ignoring anyone near us who is feeding their baby, because it’s only a natural, normal, everyday behaviour that isn’t worth commenting on.

When the negative and judgemental comments from public figures stop, that’s when the political battles will have been won. And the personal ones too.

K.

Articles linked to in the above:

Nina Furnell in Daily Life (The Age) on the nurse-ins and protests against David Koch’s comments on breastfeeding: http://www.dailylife.com.au/news-and-views/dl-opinion/showing-your-breasts-in-public-20130121-2d23h.html

Jennifer Wilson on her blog No Place for Sheep – one of the many women who have taken up the issue on social media and received an amazing amount of criticism for speaking up about it, including from some who otherwise  support public breastfeeding:  http://noplaceforsheep.com/2013/01/22/breasts-class-public-space-language-as-a-tool-of-repression/

Yvette Miller in The Conversation on the public health ramifications of comments such as David Koch’s: http://theconversation.edu.au/feeding-frenzy-public-breastfeeding-is-good-for-us-all-11707

Tehani Wessely on her blog A Conversational Life, about the fact it is illegal to ask any breastfeeding woman to stop or cover up, as breastfeeding has the full support of the law: http://thebooknut.wordpress.com/2013/01/21/breastfeeding-anywhere-anytime/

David Koch in his opinion piece in The Age committing to his earlier stated views that women should be more discrete and ‘classy’ about breastfeeding in public: http://www.theage.com.au/opinion/politics/i-have-an-opinion–always-have-and-always-will-20130121-2d39n.html

My tale is one about a troublesome tooth and is called, yes, ‘Tooth’. It was inspired, I’m sure you’ll be all unsurprised to know, by a trip to the dentist. It’s amazing where the fodder for short, sharp horror tales can be derived, isn’t it?

I did have excellent fun writing the sequence about the drilling, you know, whizzzzzzzzzzz…..

See, once upon a time, I went to the dentist and she said there was a cavity and I needed to have the tooth filled. So although it was otherwise a perfectly good tooth that didn’t cause me any bother, I did as she advised and had the tooth filled. And it didn’t feel right afterwards, it was very sore indeed. The dentist said it would be sensitive for a while, but this was becoming string-around-the-doorknob-desperation levels of pain, right up to the day when my head seemed to implode with ferocious fire-breathing agony. And no, that’s not overstating it. My face was all just one big ball of jarring pain so strong I couldn’t speak, spreading from the tip of my chin to the greying roots of my ever-in-need-of-a-dye-job hair.

So stumbling back to the dentist go I, clawing my way through the fog of agony stemming from my mouth. Dentist diagnoses an impacted wisdom tooth – which was not the tooth which had been filled – and whips it out in a jiffy, leaving me feeling much better. No more face-peeling-off pain. Except days go by and the troublesome tooth is still extremely sore. Even just the movement of my tongue against it had me squealing. So back I go again and this time it’s diagnosed as an infection in the former-wisdom-tooth socket, with the sore tooth still resolutely ignored, and I’m popped on antibiotics and, yes, all is well.

For about a month. Then my face implodes again and this time I insist she drill into the tooth that is actually sore to check it out, and what do you know, but the roots of the tooth are already dead. All black and withered. In fact the tooth has been dying all this time and there’s an abscess the size of your fist (not to scale) living off it.

Hmmm. Can you see where I get my tendency to tell dental horror stories? This is the point, incidentally, when I write the first draft of the story which will end up in Midnight Echo 8.

Anyway, after three courses of antibiotics fail to clear up the infection, and multiple attempts at root canal get only half way through before the abscess flares up each time, and the temporary filling falls out more than once, I get pregnant. All dental work ceases. My tooth feels much better for it.

Oh, did I mention I came to this dentist because I was a very nervous patient who’d had a couple of bad dental experiences before? And she was recommended to make me feel better? No? Well, there you go.

I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.

Sooooo….  life toddles along. I have the baby. I sell the dental horror story to Midnight Echo. I pretend to forget about the half-finished root canal because the abscess no longer hurts. I nick into the dentist when the lad is about seven months old to get the temporary filling re-filled, at which point the dentist suggests we just leave the tooth alone for a while longer, you know, while the going is so good.

And I agree with her.

I am an idiot.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…   While all this is happening, I get a new part-time day-job working for – wait for it – the Dental Association. TRUE. And it’s a fantastic place to work. I even feel a little bit guilty writing a horror story about dentists when I now work with so many of them and they are all wonderful, caring professionals. But only a little, because a story is a story and that one is a goody, no matter how admiring I am of the dental professionals I now work among.

And all this brings us up to last week, when I walk happily into the Dental Association members’ Christmas Party, select a small salt-and-vinegar chip from a nearby bowl, crunch down and…

Ouch.

Yes, in a room full of dentists, I break my tooth.

And this occurs on the very day that Midnight Echo volume 8, with my story ‘Tooth’ – a tale inspired by this very same troublesome tooth, let me remind you – is published.

ARGH, WHAT DID I DO TO OFFEND YOU, GODS OF KARMA-FATE-COINCIDENCE???

Seriously, this is a true story, every ounce of it. And you have to laugh. I’ve got dental bills roughly equivalent to US national debt, but I can’t stop laughing at it. I mean, who breaks their tooth at a Christmas party for dentists? I think I’ll be contacting the OED soon to suggest a new definition for irony and it’ll just be a picture of my broken tooth.

So make sure you go buy Midnight Echo volume 8. Because all the forces in the universe aligned to bring you this story…

K.

Epilogue…  

I’ve subsequently been to see a new dentist, one recommended by my colleagues at the dental association. And yes, the tooth has to come out. It can’t be saved, cracked up under the gum-line, still infected and all. So bye-bye tooth. I’m off to an oral surgeon in the next few days and then it’ll be gone. But I don’t mind so much. I did get one hell of a story out of it, after all.

The story is called Tooth and you can go catch a preview at Midnight Echo website: http://midnightechomagazine.com/2012/10/21/midnight-echo-issue-8-preview-kathryn-hore/

Go have a look. While you’re there, don’t forget to pre-order the issue. Or even better, subscribe.

Anyway, just a quick one today folks, dashing about being busy and all that, but more on this to come soon…

See this space? Watch it.

K.

Only I’m at the emerging bit that is well before the (beautiful etc.) butterfly shows up, and the caterpillar is instead stuck inside the cocoon metamorphosing from green-brown wriggly thing into the big-winged flying thing.

Can you imagine what a caterpillar mid-change might look like? Squished in the dank, fetid space of the rotting cocoon, body pulsing and repulsing, all gooey with muck and slime, physically pulling itself apart, stretching new flesh and destroying old? I’m fairly certainly we’re talking The Thing territory here. Especially that bit where they catch it in the dog-pen mid-transform and there’s dog heads and blood and raw flesh and spinning tentacles and dripping monster all over the place.

Yup, that’s me.

Not thinking so ‘beautiful’ now, are you? Ah, the power of a dubious analogy far too over-played.

Anyhoos, I take on the label emerging because (a) on the scales weighing up my published works v. my rejected works, there’s a firm plonk as the ‘rejected’ side crashes down on the desk, and (b) I had to pick a box when joining my local writers association and that one seemed the most appropriate. I’ve a handful of published pieces of short fiction out there making their way in the world and I’m working hard on making it many more, while along the way collecting a lovely bunch of rejections. Which I figure makes me emerging. Probably.

Oh, who knows. It’s not like you need to pass an exam to prove you’re a real writer. There’s only one thing you need to do to consider yourself a writer:

Write.

Yeah, you heard it here first, kids. Like no-one’s ever said that before. Except sometimes we don’t listen. I’ve been writing since I was six years old, but it’s only been these last couple of years since I started taking it seriously enough to chase publication – and even then only after I actually began racking up the odd publishing win or two – that I was confident enough to call myself a writer when out in public. And even now I’m prefacing it with ‘emerging’.

It appears I still feel the need to justify the one thing I have done compulsively since I was old enough to hold a pen, by offering proof that professionals in the field think I’m worthy to be a part of the writers-club. It’s possibly because I grew up in the Olde Worlde Before-Internet Days, when everything was analogue and even a digital watch could cause a stir. Back in said olden days, publishing was about the printed world and self-publishing was a vanity operation. The world has moved on now, of course, and self-publishing is a serious enterprise, but it’s hard to shake the “I am a real writer because other people think so!” thing I clearly have going on.

Still, let me just sashay sideways for a moment and consider the broader writerly world. Because for a blog post about when you can call yourself a writer and when you can’t according to the mystical gatekeepers of cultural wisdoms or whoever else comes up with this stuff, I’ve so far been pretty light-on in the commonly-agreed definitions department. That’s because the commonly-agreed definitions are not, as such, commonly agreed.

As part of my research for this post – yes, I did research! Like year 9 students across the country, I spent a couple of minutes googling and skimming the results – I found emerging writer can and has been defined as:

Someone who has not yet published a book, but has published in journals and magazines; someone who has only published one book; someone who does not have an agent or book contract; someone who’s had less than 6 items published; someone who has no more than 3-4 professionally published items; and someone who is in the process of creating a distinctive practice and set of concerns and producing a significant body of work, but whose recognition within the field is limited. Yeah, I liked that last one too.

And in the correct timescale of these clearly scientific and precise calculations, a new writer precedes an emerging writer and an established writer succeeds one. Kind of like those evolutionary diagrams of man learning to walk upright. So presumably if one can work out where the agreed definitions of emerging lie in the greater scheme of things, then one can figure out the others as well, and we’ll then all know who we are and where we are and the world will be just right.

Bah humbug.

I mean, what else can you say to all that? Sure, competitions and opportunities specifically aimed at new or emerging writers need a way to define themselves, and so they do – see above series of definitions for reference. But when we’re talking about how we define ourselves, how we label ourselves, how we present ourselves to the world, or just think about ourselves within the confines of our own heads, well…

A writer writes. If you write, you are a writer. So go ahead and call yourself whatever you like.

I don’t mind calling myself an emerging writer. It seems to fit, cocoon and all. I’ve just started having my work published and I’ve a way to go ahead of me. And it really does feel a bit like my own personal Thing, stretching out fleshy bits, tearing off others, trying to figure out the new shape of writer-being I want to become.

I’m not sure where my writing will go or what it will turn into, but I do feel like I’ve started. Now I just need to keep going so as to find out…

‘Till next

K.

Anyway, to business. I have the utmost pleasure of hosting a guest blog today. Katie Moore is a blogger from the US who writes about all things motherhood. As a fellow writer, I do love to spread the love, so make her feel welcome now. 

Here’s Katie…

-=-=-=-=-

Jogging for the New Mom: A Way to Stay Healthy and Have Fun

As a new mom, jogging helped me feel energized and ready to conquer any challenge that life threw my way. Psychologists consistently recommend jogging as a remedy for patients who want to feel motivated, inspired and energetic in life. Jogging also helped me develop endurance that allowed me to engage in more intense workout sessions. For the new mom who is on the fence about jogging, here are the top 5 reasons to choose this form of exercise.
1. Have some “me” time

Going on a morning jog can help you start your day out the right way. You can gain clarity on the things you want to accomplish for the day during your jog. Your jog can serve as your “me” time to think about whatever you like. It is essential that you treat yourself to some “me” time every day, and jogging can be the perfect way to find this time.

2. Enjoy the outdoors

Jogging can provide you with inspiration in life. If you have a trail near your home, then you can try jogging outdoors and enjoy the breathtaking views of nature. If you have a beach near your home, then jogging in the morning near the water can provide you with tranquility and peace. You will find that jogging outdoors can provide you with a sense of centeredness and inner stability. Whenever I felt a bit frazzled from my home duties, jogging outdoors gave me an outlet to the world outside of my home.

3. Develop strength

Jogging helps women develop immense strength in their lower body and abdominal regions. When you start jogging, you will notice how much stronger and fit your legs feel. You will also enjoy the muscle definition that your calves and quads gain as a result of jogging on a daily basis. Your abdominal muscles will also become defined as a result of jogging.

4. Increase your distance

Jogging gives you a sense of accomplishment. Every week, you can add a small amount of distance to your jog. I kept a running diary to track my performance and feel accomplished as I filled it. By going farther each week, you feel like you are moving forward in the achievement of something greater than yourself. You can also use jogging as a metaphor for any goals that you are seeking to achieve in your life. Jogging can help you stay focused on maintaining a positive mindset for the achievement of your goals in life.

5. Gain confidence

As you are becoming stronger and running longer distances, you will inevitably gain more confidence in yourself. Not only will you gain confidence in your physical appearance and body, but you will also gain confidence in the clarity of your mind. You are able to gain mental strength and clarity when you jog on a regular basis.

Jogging is a great exercise for the new mom. Jogging provides one with spiritual, mental and physical health benefits. Since people define jogging differently, I recommend speaking with your doctor to find out which pace would be best for you. Just like my doctor gave me advice on circumcision, cord blood banking, diet, and pain medicine; he also told me which exercises would be best for me as I tried to both stay healthy and have fun after giving birth.

 “Katie Moore has written and submitted this article. Katie is an active blogger who discusses the topics of, motherhood, children, fitness, health and all other things Mommy. She enjoys writing, blogging, and meeting new people! To connect with Katie contact her via her blog, Moore From Katie or her twitter, @moorekm26.”

There’s not a lot of time for anything else when you’ve got an infant-sized youngun’ in the house, you know.

You know that post that’s maybe a couple of items down the front page of this site? The one that says something about a plan about how I was going to write once the baby came along? Yeah, well, it didn’t work.

Total amount of time to write with a newborn in the house?

Zero.

Trusies. It was the only thing I found difficult to put aside when focusing on the kid. Everything else I was happy to junk: day job, corporate career, housework, sleep. Could go without any of it. But writing… ah, that burn of the addiction. That I missed.

Not that I entirely went without. I strung together a word or two, when the opportunity arose. Redrafted a couple of lingering tales. Collected some more rejections for the electronic pile.

Even got an acceptance I wasn’t expecting. Woohoo (and more on that later).

But regular, everyday, workman like writing time… nope, that disappeared entirely. And oooh, how it’s been itching just in that metaphorical place impossible to scratch without offending polite society.

So, anyway. Why am I gabbling on about this now? Because there’s been a shift in the last week or two, my internet lovelies. I’m starting to get the odd hour or two back on a regular basis.

In other words: it’s time. Time to return to the fray. Time to get the fingers dancing once more upon the keyboard.

Time to write.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends.

K.

No, seriously, wtf is it? Not the baby, I know what the baby is – he’s Luke the Awake. No, I mean the tentacled orange thing which looks like it might have come from H.P. Lovecraft’s lesser known series of babies books.

Baby Cthulhu anyone?

It hangs next to a bird and in the company of a dragon fly – albeit a dragon fly as designed by Salvador Dali – on the lad’s swing, just under some flashing lights in what I think are meant to be clouds of apocalyptic colours. Which plays a tinny-but-cheerful soundtrack from Greig’s Peer Gynt suite.

It’s clearly meant to be a sky-based creature, judging by the birdies and the Armageddon clouds, and yet to me it looks most like an octopus. With only two tentacles. And red bobbles on its head. In the sky.

A Sky Ocotpus.

The wonders of baby’s toys. Bright lights and pretty sounds. Our house is filled with them at the moment. I prefer to describe it that way, because it’s better than describing the stacked up washing, layers of dust and garden beds that are home to many a happy noxious weed.

But hey, that’s life when you’ve got a three month old. Bright lights and pretty sounds from the myriad of primary-coloured toys scattered about the carpet like just so many Fisher Price landmines. It’s all rather fun. Just don’t mind the dirty dishes in the sink.

Suffice to say I’ve not been getting a hell of a lot of writing done in these last few months, what with having a new baby and all. But I have been keeping the hand here a bit here and there, editing some pieces prepared earlier (i.e. first draft written prior to the arrival of Luke the Lover of Cuddles into this world) and sending them off. So we’ll see what happens.

Anyway, Luke doesn’t seem to mind if the orange thing hanging from his swing is a Sky Octopus or Baby Cthulhu or something else besides. He just likes swinging. And chewing on his own hands.

(Yes, this entire post has just been a self-indulgent excuse for me to post a photo of the lad.)

‘Till next…

K.

At the end of December, to coincide with the release of Ho Ho Horror, I guest-blogged (is that a verb now?) over at Belinda Dorio’s website. So you should, you know, totally go check it out and stuff. Not saying you have to, only that if you don’t I’ll cut you out of my will. Or something. You get what I mean.

Writing Horror at Christmas, a post I wrote pretty much on Christmas day itself:  http://belindadorio.com.au/?p=301

And while you’re there, go check out the rest of Belinda’s site, including her interview with Andrew McKiernan, art director of Aurealis and the artist behind the illustrations in Ho Ho Horror.

‘Till next, folks

K.

So being a new parent isn’t scary or anything then, I take it. Judging by the hushed tones of the warning-deliverers, who all speak in low, tentative voices as if they’re trying to avoid triggering flashbacks, war-veteran style.

Hey, I’m not exaggerating at all, I promise. Lots of different people at different times have said such to me. Just as the childless friends of mine can never resist the opportunity to point out every baby or child crying in public and state ‘that’s your future’, as if I didn’t know babies cried or toddlers chucked tantrums.

Gee, really? Is it too late to send it back?

But obvious sarcasm and cheap jibes aside, I don’t doubt any of them. I’m not stupid. The world as I know it will change come early February. That much, we know.

It’s only that if all the warnings can’t help prepare me for the reality of having a new baby – as those delivering the warnings suggest – then just what are they meant to achieve?

The pleasure of bursting my bubble of blissful ignorance?

Ha, bad luck there, kiddies. I can maintain a state of blissful ignorance with the determination of a tom-cat refusing to give up a recently caught rat, growling from the back of the throat while holding the bloodied carcass in my teeth, and all.

Anyway. The big Unknown Factor about after the baby comes is exactly what impact it’s going to have on my writing. Because call me Susan and spin me sideways, but I’m pretty confident that it will have at least some impact. You’d think so, don’t you?

These last twelve months or so I’ve dedicated to getting fiction published. Which means I’ve started to develop a lovely, growing collection of rejections. Ah, bless. But only real writers get rejections, I’ll have you know, and I’ve also made a good start with a nice handful of pieces accepted for publication. I’m sitting at about a 50/50 acceptance-rejection ratio, at the moment. Not bad for a chick who works full time, studies part time, co-runs a busy photography & videography business, and who only began aiming at fiction publication just a little over a year ago.

2012 should be a year of growing the number of publishing acceptances. And the rejections too, of course, because they’re all part of it too.

Only I’m not sure that babies take concepts like regular, every-day writing time too seriously, ummm.

And if there’s one thing pregnancy has taught me, is that it’s really difficult to create when you’re exhausted to the point you’re wandering around like a zombie with a sinus infection.

Soooooo…

Who knows what 2012 will produce. Except a baby. And sleep deprivation. Still, I do have A Plan. Yes, with capitals. It’s all part of my ‘And here’s something I prepared earlier…’ strategy. I have a bunch of developed drafts ready for editing and a handful of stories yet to be sent out, biting at the bit, waiting for me to set off the starter gun and shoot them out into the world.

Not to mention a bunch more metaphors just waiting to be mangled in my spare time.

And if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that the words will keep flowing, one way or another. I’ve never managed to find a way to turn them off yet, after all.

That’s The Plan for Writing With Baby.

So come on baby, hit me, I can take it.

(Now let’s watch the little chap come along and blow it completely out of the water…)

K.