Actually, I just coined the term mip. [flexes writer muscle]
I liked the chapter itself, well, at least most of it anyway. You know how critical writers can be.
But I was having problems envisioning it fitting in with the other chapters. It was the sad little chapter that no one wanted to play with in the schoolyard.
(If I close my eyes, I can already see the finished book, which is not a good thing because it’s totally stifling my creativity and constricting my writing. But, damn, I look sexy on the back cover.)
Anyway, something was wrong with the chapter. I just couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
“Maybe it’s your point of view,” someone in my group suggested.
A chorus of angels started singing — Beyonce bustin’ the place up and Heidi Klum yodeling — and the skies lit up like it was the 4th of freakin’ July. Hey, it’s my blog.
Point of view. That’s what it was.
The whole thing has got thinking about my point of view. I see things from many different viewpoints: woman, lesbian, mother, writer, and partner, to name a few.
Sometimes these different lenses produce the same thought. Sometimes they don’t.
I need to try harder to see things from different perspectives and not the rigid ones that come quickly and easily.
Case in point: We seem to have more problems with one of our kids than the other two. I usually look at the situation through my bifocaled parent lenses. I sometimes forget that I was a kid once and did some weird things. Like stealing booze from my parents’ liquor cabinet and storing it in saline bottles that I took with me to parties and other events. They must have thought that I had really dry eyes that needed constant lubrication. And telling my brother every five minutes or so that he was adopted. No, really, I saw your REAL parents drop you off.
Point of view: If it makes a difference in writing, I bet it makes a difference in life.