Writing needs to come from some place either deep within ourselves or from the outer spaces we as writers observe and interpret. Any writing is surely a mixture of both sources; both destinations. Spending the evening with my mother reminded me of a lot of how I came to be a writer and of the need that vocation satisfied in me, if for no other reason than because I needed a place to say awful things.
I grew up being constantly reminded that I was not good enough–for anything. She looked at me as a case study in failure and now will occasionally call my own kids her little do overs and constantly insult the way I parent. I put up with it because I am accustomed to the abuse, but also because she is my mom and I was raised in an era where that alone stood for something. This was especially true of black moms in a way I feel is less so these days. This constant stain of disappointment still cuts me to the quick and I find that it has impacted all of my relationships in some fashion. It appears in my writing constantly. I have trouble writing mothers without straying into the familiar space of mothers who feel their lives were postponed or even stolen by their kids; mothers who make their kids feel unworthy.
It is a sad thing to realize your life is a trope, but here I am. Of course, I am more than that, but these little demons crawl around my mind and impact me on days like this.