Time to Shut Up the Boys in the Hall
Author: Cheryl Martin
Original Publication Date in Love Notes: May 2006

I finally was getting to sit and work at the computer after one of those idle times—idle meaning I had been busier than ever just not writing. Only one problem, the girls in the basement had been unusually vocal for the last month or two, but it had nothing to do with my work in progress or my it-really-is-almost-done-just-needs-a-couple-more-tweaks-almost-done work. Nope. They were off on a tangent, and it didn’t look like I was going to get anything else done until I’d done their bidding.

“Get to it,” they shouted from below. “Someone’s got to tell them about the … boys.” The last word was so low I almost missed it. I might not have known what they were babbling about except it was about the thirtieth time we’d had this exchange.

“If I tell them, will you focus on Chelsea and Blake? I need to get that out before my critique partners smack me.”

“We promise.”

I don’t know if I believe them. They frequently go off on tangents that have nothing to do with my serious writing, but I figured I’d give it a try.

My girls in the basement (with appropriate acknowledgment to Barbara Samuel and Jennifer Cruise and all the other wonderful writers who have other people living in their homes) have a running feud with the boys in the hall. At least that’s what they started calling them after a chat I had with my three-year-old daughter. Seems the boys start their subversive acts early.

We were coloring. Rather, I was in the floor coloring while Caroline stood watching me. I held out a marker. “Here, honey, come color.”

“I scribble,” she muttered.

Of course she scribbles. She’s three. What’s the big deal, I wondered. She still didn’t join me. I looked up, and she was staring at the toe of her tennis shoe. Now, there wasn’t a Blue’s Clue paw print dancing on her shoe, and the Dora the Explorer who decorated the side of the shoe hadn’t magically come to life. So for the life of me I didn’t get what was so darn interesting about the toe of that shoe.

“Come color,” I invited again.

She shook her head. “I scribble,” she shouted. “Kyle said I scribble all the time.”

Yeah, it took this long for the light bulb to click on. The boys had been at it again. My daughter is in a class at day care where the boys seriously outnumber the girls. And the boys being boys had made their presence known a few times. Like when they told her she was three and didn’t belong in their four-year-old class. That was a long week.

I gently pulled her in my lap. “Do you like to color?” She nodded. “Then that’s all that matters. It doesn’t have to be perfect every time. You color because you like to make pretty things with bright colors. You do it for you.”

I’m pretty sure the lecture about art, self-esteem and outside critics went over her head, but it didn’t go over mine. And my boys in the hall aren’t always male. Sometimes it’s a contest judge who seemed to have read someone else’s manuscript entirely, a family member you finally let read your novel, a co-worker who mocks romance writing. The boys come in all shapes and sizes.

But let’s forget them for a minute. Why do I scribble—I mean write—in the first place? I like to create, the characters just won’t shut up until I get them down on paper; it’s a part of who I am. I can barely remember a time when I didn’t write. I’m a happier person when I take time to create and write.

So why do I even care what the boys say? Because I want to color in the lines. I don’t want to scribble either. Sometimes it’s hard. They have really loud voices.

I’ve worked hard to find ways to shut them up, though. First, I found some louder cheerleaders. For me they’re my critique partners who wouldn’t let me take the book to the backyard and burn it no matter what. It’s my best friend who sent me a gift certificate when I finaled in my first contest. It’s my husband who takes our daughter to the park so I can write. When these voices join together, they drown out even the most vile of boys.

I don’t hesitate to complain and gripe when I’m feeling low, but somehow it seems wrong to revel in a triumph. Phooey on that. I’ve never known the boys to be able to stand against a rousing chorus of the Dora the Explorer “We Did It” song. Sing, dance, twist. I just have to be careful not to hurt myself.

I make the time to take care of myself. I’m a working mom with a three-year-old tornado living in my house. As a reporter, my husband has an erratic schedule. If I’m going to write during a day, it’s either before work, on my lunch break, or after the weather phenomenon has gone to bed – after she’s sucked all the energy out of my bones. That doesn’t leave much time for writing, reading, eating, sleeping and exercising. Not to mention having fun and a few minutes to myself to relax or recharge. But these are essential ingredients to writing and believing in myself. It’s amazing what lies I can buy into when I’m exhausted, hungry, sick or stressed. The boys are bad enough. I can’t hand them my self-esteem on a silver platter.

Read, write. Read, write. Attend conferences. Repeat. One of the best ways I’ve found to separate constructive criticism from destructive ranting is to educate myself about the craft. Read books, listen to tapes from conferences. It doesn’t even have to take time from my already crowded life. I make time by listening to speakers recorded on CD while I drive to work or exercise. With a knowledge base, I’m able to discern the voices, listen to the good ones and ignore the bad ones.

During the boys’ teasing, taunting and tormenting, I find myself asking the same questions over and over. Is it worth it? How bad do I want this? What am I willing to endure? There have been times it’s been too much, I’m ashamed to say, and I stop writing. For a time. Then the girls in the basement get rowdy, like call-the-cops-to-break-up-the-brawl rowdy.

“Why’d you listen to them?” they’ll ask. “They’re just dumb boys.” The girls will take me by the hand and shove me into my computer chair and glare at me until I put my fingers to the keys. Once I start to type, they move back a little. They know I don’t like to be crowded, but they hover. I guess they’re afraid I’ll bolt for the door, but a funny thing happens the longer I sit and work. The tension, the fear, the anxiety flees in the presence of the words. My words are stronger than the words the boys fling around so carelessly.

Sometimes the boys escalate the warfare to spit balls, and it gets ugly. I fight back by blowing raspberries. Yeah, my mom told me it wasn’t a nice thing to do, but you have to fight bodily fluids with bodily fluids. For me, blowing raspberries takes the form of writing something just for me. It’s nothing I plan to submit for publication. It’s either too short or too silly. A little story to make my daughter laugh or a journal entry where I explore my feelings. The mere act of finishing a piece, polishing it until it sparkles, goes a long way to saying, “Nah-nah-nah-nah boo-boo. You can’t catch me.”

Writing for me and no one else helps me put the focus back on the girls in the basement, the creativity, the art of writing. At the heart of it all, that’s what counts. Does what I’ve written satisfy the creative need inside me? If it does, then everything else is icing on the cake.

“Cake, you’ve got cake? Why are we wasting time on those boys?” the girls holler.

I guess it doesn’t take much to distract them from the boys in the hall. Chocolate always does it for my girls. Find your own way to keep your girls from listing to the boys. After all boys will be boys. Then keep writing and creating. And don’t forget to color outside the lines every so often. Scribbling is more interesting than precision coloring every time.

***

Cheryl Martin is a journalist who’s turned to the dark side — fiction writing, romantic comedies to be exact. Or a fiction writer who supports her habit with her journalism job. Either way, she juggles the two plus a preschooler and a husband. Sleep? Who needs sleep?

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