Just two people talking

As the first piece back at work sits here, almost completely written but for a bit of polishing and the always agonizing editing process, I reflect on the amazing changes that motherhood has brought about in how I approach and report a story. For years, I believed that I needed to report within a matrix, from a completely quiet place, with minimal distractions. As a business writer, this was always possible. Workplaces might seem like war zones, but this is a strictly symbolic sense. Quiet interviews are always possible, expected, even. When I quit writing more than a year ago, I was pretty sure that when I got back to work, I wouldn't write about business anymore.

So, here, looking at this personality profile that has not a single number or balance sheet mentioned in it, I feel my career has taken a turn. The circumstances surrounding its composition were unavoidable. I often had Charlotte on my hip when I was calling sources. She always wanted to be part of the conversation. And I've wondered if this was acceptable, but it always seemed to make interviews go more smoothly. The reporter-source rapport turned into just two people talking, which helped everything.

When reporters were embedded in Iraq, many wondered what would happen to journalism. I think it helped to relax what we think ought to be this distance between writer and subject. Being trained in folklore, where fieldwork is king, I have always questioned why a reporter can't just be a person. Colleagues have asked whether it's possible to maintain journalistic objectivity if the writer is being a person with other people. I think good journalism is all about being able to step back onto the shore after you've been immersed.

From now on, no matter what kind of stories I write, I will always know that's okay for me to be a person first. Here, with my desk shoved into the corner of the dining room (the old office became a nursery when Charlotte came along), with 2-year-old art all around, including a box we made into a printer cozy with paint and glued tissue paper and collage, I am truly embedded in life. This will be a wonderful thing.

Surrender Dorothy

Yesterday, I sat down and wrote 2,000 words of a 3,000 word profile that is due today. The main subject of said profile had promised an interview this afternoon. No problem, I thought, I'll just do the entire story based on interviews with this person's family, friends, work associates and others and then stitch in quotes from him here and there. It will be beautiful!

This is the first time I've ever approached a story this way. I thought, that's cool. No problem! This is how the best profiles are written, right? Talk to everyone around a subject, then talk to the subject. Right? Then my editor called and said that if I can get more access to the subject, then the story will be better, and we'll push the deadline back. No problem! So I got all geared up to charm the subject, ("just be yourself," my editor gushed.)

Fast forward to this morning. The kids are simultaneously screaming like a yeti and saying, "I want candy! I want candy! I want candy!" When the subject's secretary calls and says he's had a family emergency and the interview is off.

Looking at my 2,000 words, I am thinking, it's good. But it's not a complete work of art. It's just pieces, and it lacks soul. I've really got to spend more time with this person. But how? My editor urges me to call the subject on his cell phone. "Just be yourself." he says.

The kids are having a tough day. Charlotte's about to cut a tooth. Ryan's had it with the time I've already spent on the phone today. I tell my father-in-law that the interview with the subject is off, so he doesn't have to take the kids. The kids get more antsy and fussy. My husband calls. "Hello, Hell speaking!" I answer with a psychotic ring to my voice.

Charlotte finally collapses in a heap. Ryan asks for a story. I sit on the couch with him and we read "Winnie the Pooh." He is a warm puppy in my arms dressed for summer in just a diaper. I smell his fine hair. Really breathe it in. I say, okay. I'll just be myself.

The phone rings. It's the subject. I ask him a few questions, then he asks me how close in age my kids are. I tell him how I feel like I am living inside a washing machine. This is my first story in 13 months. "It'll get easier," he says. He's a father of four. We talk. We click. He says "What can I do for you?"

Now I know I'll have to start over on the story. Access is granted. This is going to be a completely different story. I'll just be myself.

Pizza for dinner again

Right after I had Ryan and was going back to work, I thought I'd never snap out of the haze of being up half the night and having half of my day consumed by mundane and repetitive--albeit soul-making--work of changing diapers, nursing, burping, changing diapers, nursing, burping. When it came to work, I was terrified I'd make a mistake. At the time, I worked for a major national financial publication. One error, and I could change the stock price for a company. One snafu, and I could get someone fired. The stakes were high, and it was stressful. I literally can count the number of mistakes I made during the 9 years I worked off and on for that publication because each one was so painful. To have an error go out to 100,000 copies in airports, Barnes & Nobles, and news stands without being able to call it back is torture. There's no way to really say sorry, even with the benefit of the corrections section.

Back to postpartum Ryan time. I was so afraid that my stupor would overflow into my copy and that I would make a mistake that I began to favor book reviews. At least, I figured, I could see, in black and white, the facts, numbers, names and nuances I was putting down on paper. I knew, though, that my work lacked the pizazz that I liked it to have. You have to pay close attention to really tell a good story. My attention span seemed about as good as that of a housefly. All of this was wearing on me when a wise friend said to me, "Relax. You're like the housewife who thinks she has to prepare filet mignon every night for supper. Sometimes it's okay to make a hot dog. Hot dogs are good. People love hot dogs. Or pizza, for that matter. It's okay to order a pizza." Meaning that your stories are sometimes lame. But the general 8th grade reading level public doesn't always mind lame.

I took that philosophy into my Self. And tonight, for the umpteenth time this month, we are having pizza for dinner. And it tastes darn good. Everyone likes pizza.

Working around the clock

Last night Charlotte was up at 3 AM so I took the opportunity to work on my latest story, a profile of a significant sports figure. Writing e-mails at 3 AM gives you either the advantage of looking like you are so passionate about your work that you are willing to work through the night or the disadvantage of looking like you are crazy and sleep-deprived. It could be a little bit of both, in fact.

Back before I had kids I truly did wake up in the night to write down thoughts I had. But honestly, I don't like working at 3 AM. So I desperately hope that the person I e-mailed responds with a nice interview.

It is amazing how you use whatever tools you have when you are a reporter. Last week I actually tried to get Charlotte to coo while leaving a message for a plum source because I know this guy is a sucker for little kids. Hey, whatever it takes.

Can I do this?

It's been 13 months since a single word of my writing has been published, but 3 weeks ago my editor called me and asked me to come out of retirement. Not retirement, really, but mommy-tirement. Charlotte is 10 months old. Ryan will be 3 in October. I stopped writing professionally when I was expecting Charlotte. The constant word churning was wearing me down, and I said more than once that I was tired of working two jobs, balancing diapers and deadlines, having to keep Ryan quiet while I phoned CEOs and celebrities. But when that call from my editor came, it was like the heavens were giving me a ring. Without realizing it, I'd slumped into a haze. At first it was pleasant. Then it felt lonely. I didn't even realize how much I missed my writing until I did my first interview back on the beat. It was like opening a window. I could breathe.

I know how politically incorrect this is, of course. I firmly believe in attachment parenting, the philosophy of mommying and daddying that is pretty much how it sounds. Make the child an appendage. Wear her. Nurse her. Birth her naturally. Sleep curled around her. Put her first. It makes a lot of sense. I have been up for the challenge with both of my children, and we will continue on that path. But to keep it up, I have to be able to breathe. And that's what writing is for me.

So I thought that I'd start this blog to chronicle my process. Mostly for me and those who are close to me. But who knows? Maybe there are others out there who are doing the juggling act, not just working with words but with numbers, paint, wood, paper. The question here--and I'd love to talk to anyone who has figured out the answer--is how do you be fully present in your own life and in the lives of your family? Is it unrealistic to expect that you could do both? Is it really in the face of feminism to think of your children as part of you? Is it really in the face of holistic parenting to want to chase down a plum interview or write through the night?

Let's discover this.