The event will begin at 2 p.m. It’s free and open to the public, and will feature 22 (!) of our current and former students, reading their work. We don’t advise bringing your kids — some material will not be appropriate. But please bring yourself. Your mom, if she’s available.  And some Kleenex.

Here’s a sneak peek at a piece former student Kim Porter will be reading:

     I cry when I sing.
     I also pee when I laugh. And sneeze and cough and jump for joy. But that’s a defect I’ve come to terms with. It hardly bothers me anymore. What bothers me is that I cry when I sing.
     I hate that I cry when I sing.
    Ok, that’s not true. I love to cry when I sing, I hate to get caught. And I always get caught.

We have a couple workshops planned for summer (not just limited to moms!) and registration for the next Mothers Who Write workshop will begin July 1st. Details here (with more to follow soon).

My old friend Tim is popping up everywhere these days. He was the staff photographer at Phoenix New Times when I arrived in 1993 (a position that sadly hasn’t existed in years) and we pal-ed around for a few years, working on stories together and wasting time the way people waste time before they have kids. A long time ago, Tim and his wife Cheri moved to northern California, where he’s got a great mix of commercial, editorial and personal photographic projects going. You can see it at timothyarchibald.com.

I keep up a bit with Tim on Facebook these days; it’s been years since our paths crossed. He’s got two kids of his own now. Yeah, we’re both busy. No more time for making web sites devoted to gummi candy (really! embarrassing!) or driving around south Phoenix, waiting for story ideas to emerge.

Back to the popping up “everywhere” thing. First, Tim popped up last week in a book I’m reading — Bonk by Mary Roach. I highly recommend it and yes, it’s about what you think it’s about: sex. Sex and science. I shouldn’t have been surprised that Roach showed up at an event for a photo book Tim did years ago, about sex machines (literally).

Then, just a day later, Sophie got to a top shelf in her room (I guess she is getting taller) and pulled down a stack of snapshots. “Who’s this?” she asked, holding up a photo of a bald guy in glasses cradling a tiny baby. “That’s my friend Tim holding you,” I told her, remembering (again) that I hadn’t yet posted a piece about Tim’s work, vis a vis the question of whether we should be writing about our kids. So now I will.

Tim does something that’s arguably even more personal and potentially invasive, I suppose, than writing about his kids. He photographs his kids. I’m not surprised, looking back on the days we worked together, that he mines his life, pushes the envelope in this way. I was always impressed by the fact that no matter the assignment, Tim would take extra time with the subject (be it person or object) to make his own work. For him, it was never just about the job, and it was incredibly inspiring to watch.

I feel the same when I look at the work involving his children. You can see it on his web site, and in his latest book, Echolilia — details are on the site about that, too. There’s an image above from the book, and here’s an excerpt from an interview Tim did with a blog called Too Much Chocolate on the topic of what it means to make art about your kids.

Like Trish, Tim has encouraged his kids in their own creative pursuits, particularly Eli, who makes his own images (featured in Echolilia) and actually has his own blog, which I love (but won’t link here because I’m not sure how private Tim keeps it).  This stuff goes beyond writing about your kids, but I think you’ll dig what Tim had to say in the interview with Too Much Chocolate:

If your subject is your kid, access is rarely the problem- everything you need is right in front of you. Being the Dad and then trying to let go of that role and then try to collaborate with my son… oh that is the problem. What will I do to get the photograph? What license will I give him? What line will I cross myself to make the image happen, only to then switch over and be the Dad moments later when the shoot is over?

Here we are re-creating an accident together. Here we are wrapping him in rubber bands….something he did already but this time in just the right light. Is he consenting to this stuff? I showed this work to a friend who responded “ Photographers always claim to be collaborating with their subjects. The truth is we are willing to do anything to get what we want from them. We’ll steal what we can as quickly as we can or pay any price after that if the stealing doesn’t work. You know that is true.” I didn’t disagree.

Robrt Pela is a dear friend and longtime colleague. If you live in metro Phoenix, you might know him as the theater critic for Phoenix New Times and KJZZ, the local NPR affiliate. He writes about other things, too — he’s done a book about John Waters, and New Times stories about every art form you can imagine (and some you can’t). And he writes about his own life.

Robrt’s memoir writing is fan-freaking-tastic, and I am particularly fond of the work he’s done about his family. He doesn’t write about his kids — he doesn’t have any. Lately, he writes about his mother. It’s a particularly bittersweet task, I imagine, because she he has Alzheimer’s.

It’s not the same as writing about your kids, and yet in some important ways, I think, it’s not entirely different, either. Robrt was kind enough to take a break from his almost round-the-clock caregiving role to answer a few questions.

(You can hear his pieces and see a lovely photo of Robrt and his mom on KJZZ’s archives.)

Before this happened with your mom, how did you approach memoir writing?

Much more cautiously. I felt more strongly about protecting people when writing about them as secondary characters in my own story. I worry about that less, now that I’ve written about my mother as a disabled person— something she would not have approved of.

Did you have any rules for what you would/wouldn’t write for the public?

I suppose, unofficially, that I meant not to embarrass people who were close to me. So stories in which others behaved badly were off limits. This is less often true all the time.

How is this different when it comes to your mom, given her situation?

I had to abandon the idea of only writing about things my mother would have approved of, were she still in her right mind, because she was a very private person when it came to anything embarrassing, like an ailment. She wouldn’t have approved any of this, to be honest, and that’s where my personal concerns about exploitation and fairness come in. When we’re writing about someone close to us, we’re writing about ourselves, as well. I was always profoundly moved that my mother’s mother’s lifelong confinement in a mental hospital in the 1920s was such a deep, dark secret. I hated that. By not keeping secrets, I am making up for the ways in which my maternal grandmother (whom I never knew) became a secret. For me, if I’m telling all my stories, without shame, I’m compensating.

You have already put some work out into the world — any regrets once it was there? Lessons learned from it?

I was frankly surprised by the response to the first Mom essay, and I suppose the lesson I learned is that everyone has a mother, and mom storiesnreally resonate with people.

I have no regrets.

Why write memoir?

I like writing what I know, and I suppose I know nothing better than my own story and how I feel about it. Also, writing memoir is a more intimate way of doing what we do all day long: write. It’s like having a discussion with your reader in which you say, “See? We’re different enough that you’re informed or (hopefully) entertained by this story, but we’re also kind of alike; this is your story, too.”

Why write about your mom during this time? Why not just tell happy stories about her?

I find that I can do both, but one has to have reason to write about what a good cook or friendly person one’s mother is or was. The contrast between who she is now and who she was before, in my case, provides a tension and melancholy that I like to bring to my writing.

I won’t tell you how much Abbie loved the piece — and how much she loves her mom. I’ll let her do that herself, in an essay she wrote for English class not long after the reading.

Trish read the following piece at our annual Mothers Who Write, Mothers Who Read event this past Mother’s Day weekend, and I’m chagrined to admit that I’ve had every intention this summer to get all dozen-plus pieces posted on our website. Hasn’t happened yet. Soon, I promise.

For now, I’m digging into the motherlode to share Trish’s stunning, painful, honest, beautiful piece, “St. Abigail.”

Coming soon: 15-year-old Abbie’s reaction to the piece.

St. Abigail * by Tricia Wasbotten Parker

I am critical of my daughter. When I was pregnant with her, I think I knew that I would be. And I suppose it’s one of the reasons I hoped for another son.

I am critical of Abbie because she chooses Taylor Swift over the Heartless Bastards.

Because she’s not interested in analyzing Lady Gaga as her generation’s Madonna.

Because she reaches for treacly Sarah Dessen novel after Sarah Dessen novel without ever having asked what important books I read at her age, what I might recommend.

Because she expressed genuine interest in trying out for cheer.

Cheer!

Because she spends 30 minutes every morning straightening the waves out of her long hair.

Because if a blonde boy also plays baseball, he is worthy of her attention.

Because she spends hours on Facebook and reading My Life is Average entries.

Because she has Disney princess marathons with her friends and is seemingly unoffended by the archetype of the princess.

I am critical of Abbie because I feared she would be an alien to me – the most frustrating alien of all, one in my selfsame image. My son’s boneheadedness is easy to process – I blame his gender. My daughter’s? A direct reflection of me, of my own failings and weaknesses.

But she hasn’t been a reflection of me. Not really. We’re so different, and not just when it comes to literature.

Abbie is thin and long-legged. Aside from a splattering of tiny freckles across her nose, her skin is smooth and tanned. She has light hair and eyes, long eyelashes, a strong chin, like her dad’s bevy of knockout nieces, but not like me.

Then, this year, Abbie started attending the school where I teach. Suddenly we’re both hearing – constantly – how much we look alike.

For months, my response to “Your daughter looks just like you!” was a consistent “I know…” Pause. “Poor thing.”

I realize it is not unusual for children to resemble their parents. But I also am beginning to realize that our resemblance must be deeper than mere physicality. For all my criticisms of her, Abbie is lovely.

In his poem “St. Francis and the Sow,” Galway Kinnell writes, “sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness.” Yes, in this poem St. Francis is talking to a pig. Fitting, right? My short legs, my thick midsection, my stubby nose? With a few exceptions of the occasionally flattering photo or a fleeting moment of confidence, I have not been able – not since well before puberty – to see myself as lovely. This is not a new story.

But then there’s my beautiful, goofy, free-spirited, wise daughter.

Last fall I sat watching her play in a badminton match. I was having one of those, “That’s my kid!” moments – just feeling full and proud – when an old neighbor sat down next to me. Although he hadn’t seen Abbie in a while, he knew it was her, and I knew what was coming.

“She looks just like you.”

Like me? No – I wasn’t lovely at 15, and I’m not lovely at 41.

Or, wait. Am I?

I have stopped saying “poor thing.” This beautiful alien who I am so critical of and so grateful for?

She is reteaching me my loveliness.

Not to be. Sophie barged in this morning and started asking questions.

My favorite: “What are those dots on your face?”

Not interested in explaining the fundamentals of foundation (which I later managed to squirt all over the bathroom, really not my finest hour) I tried to gently push her out the door, but she would have none of it. Clearly sensing my annoyance, she edged over to the counter and picked up my imitation Spanx. I could feel the frustration rising  — is nothing sacred? –when she smiled and remarked, “These are cute, Mommy!”

How could you not melt at that? I cracked up, instead of just cracking, and finally — on her own terms, as always – Sophie left the bathroom.

OK, so here’s my question. How harmful was that to Sophie? I can’t honestly tell you. I’m way too close. In thinking more about this “should we be writing about our kids” thing, I’m realizing I can’t really speak to my own work.

I am grateful for the insightful comments you’ve left. The most obvious topic for discussion is how to identify your kids. I feel strongly that this is a completely personal choice. I certainly don’t judge anyone who chooses to nickname (or not name) their kids in a blog — in fact, I wonder from time to time if I’ve shared too much. (And here I can’t say more about what I do and don’t share, or what details I change, for security purposes.)

All I can do is share my own philosophy. I figure that in the end, everyone’s going to read everything. And even if I change Annabelle’s name to Petunia, she’s still going to know it’s her. Chances are, her friends will, too. Ever since I wrote a rather personal piece about my father and our relationship, and my dad’s relationship (to use the term very loosely) with John McCain (yes, that John McCain) and figured my dad would never see it and he did see it (and wasn’t thrilled) I try to write with the expectation that anyone/everyone will eventually read any and everything I write. (Really, we should all be so lucky, huh?) 

And so that means that while I share an awful lot (some would say way-TMI) on this blog, there is much, much more I don’t share at all.

The kid thing, that is a moving target. Particularly when it comes to Sophie. I have a general idea of what Annabelle will and won’t “get” when she’s old enough to happen upon this blog (which I suppose could be any time — she can read, after all) and how much she’ll understand as the years go on.

With Sophie, I’m not so sure. I did a lot of writing about her when she was much younger, and that was pretty raw. Like the public radio piece about how I don’t think mentally retarded people (and yes, I used that term) should wear overalls.

What will she think of that when she gets older? I have no idea. I stand by the overall thing, even today, but now that she’s growing up — and getting smarter every day — I wonder if I’d write the same way now that I wrote back then.

I can’t turn back time or scrub the Internet, so I try to focus on moving forward — on being true to my subjects, honest with myself and also a good self-editor (the hardest part) when I write about anything, but particularly about my kids.

My goal in writing about Sophie has not changed: I have an urge to document our life, to try to figure it out, to show it to people who are the way I was before I had her — people whose greatest exposure to a person with Down syndrome was Pink Slip, an instructional film made decades ago to teach developmentally disabled girls about their periods, but which fell into the hands of a middle-aged male friend of mine who spent years showing it at parties.

It makes me a little sick to think about Pink Slip now. (For the record: I laughed.) I don’t know how much of all of that Sophie will ever grasp (probably a whole lot of it) or what Annabelle will think about any of it.

Last night, the girls and I went to my mom’s for a swim, and out of the blue, Annabelle began quizzing my mother about her childhood in New York in the 40s and 50s. “Tell me about Uncle Arnie,” she urged. “Tell me stories about your dad.” It was beautiful and as I watched Annabelle listening to her Gaga I realized she has the reporter instinct in her, just as Ray and I do. So maybe she will get it. Maybe she’ll be pissed about some of it, too.

In any case, I know I don’t always succeed, but I try to be the hardest on myself, when I write about our family. And I try to constantly question whether doing this blog is the right thing at all.

Up next: Since it’s too close for me to talk about my own stuff (even though, hmm, I think I managed to pound out 800-plus words on the subject here) I’ll share examples of how other writers and artists cover their families well.

Both my girls are getting more interested in what I’m doing on the computer.

Well, Sophie just wants me off, so she can get on and watch Amy Sedaris’ Tooth Fairy appearance on Yo Gabba Gabba (which is so disturbing I will not embed the video EVEN THOUGH I CAN). But Annabelle has asked me recently just what I’m writing about, and when I tell her “you,” I get one of her signature raised eyebrows.

It’s only a matter of time ’til she actually reads this blog. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Or how she will.

The topic of The Implications of Writing About Your Kids (and otherwise depicting them) has long intrigued/befuddled me, so I think I’ll devote my next few posts to it.

First up: Check out this thoughtful piece by Dani Shapiro in the New York Times, on the topic of Larry Rivers’ work.

More soon. Meantime, what are your thoughts?

Last week marked the end of another Mothers Who Write workshop. I’ve lost track of how many we’ve taught. This one, like those before it, was the best yet.

We don’t play favorites, of course (wink, wink — what teacher doesn’t?!) but Deborah and I both have very cushy spots in our hearts for our long-time student Estelle Gracer.

As we say in class, “show don’t tell,” and so I’ll show you, with a video Estelle’s son Richard taped in Sedona this weekend. In it, she is reading a wonderful poem she wrote for class. You can also read it on her blog.

I sat next to Estelle at our end-of-the-workshop reading on Saturday, and as always, she had some good advice. When I complimented her outfit, she shook her scarf at me and said, “No matter what you’re wearing, you can always dress it up with a nice scarf!”

Yes, I replied, but I’m already wearing my cowgirl boots. Estelle looked at my completely plain black outfit (save for the bit of trim on the boots) and smiled kindly, eyebrows raised just a bit.

I’m hard-pressed to think of a woman who’s better at accessorizing — not just when it comes to clothing, but to her home and even her life — than Estelle. She’s taught me a lot, and I’m looking forward to the lesson.