Adriana Amendola Rogers

Who I am and how "I am" has affected my writing.

2011-07-27T11:42:00.000-07:00

Who am I? I am “Mom! Mommy! MOMMmmmm!!!” In the last eight years, I guess that’s who I am - MOM - because I’m called, screamed, cried and whined by that name - MOM - no less than 150 times a day, by both a little 8-year-old boy named Nicholas, and two-year-old toddler named Ava. Sometimes I’m referred to as “Not Fair!” or "You're mean." And sometimes, my husband of 17 years just might squeeze in an “A,” or an occasional, “Darling,” but that’s usually after a fight, over - you guessed it - the kids! On the sly, when there is a rare moment, free from dirty diapers, runny noses, driving back and forth to gymnastics, and mending socks (just kidding, I throw those foul things out and buy new ones), I can sometimes be wife, daughter, friend, neighbor, comedienne (in my own circle of two friends) and even writer.
So, that's who I am.

How has "I am" affected my work,? Everything I write is first done with a good, old fashion pen on good, old fashion paper (not a feather pen on parchment paper - “old fashion” is just an expression). Then after I hand write it, I type it up on the computer. If I could send you a video of me handwriting this grant, you would see that my writing is greatly affected by my lack of concentration to the task at hand. Why? Why else?! My Ava sees fit to sit on me and grab the pen as I attempt to write. There are also sticky smudge marks and scribble all over my notes. That's one way.

Two years ago, when I was pregnant with my Ava girl, I decided to pursue my writing with full force. I managed to have three of my plays produced, but believe me when I tell you that it has all been done with a baby in my arms and another child at my side. Simply put, we cannot afford childcare, while I pursue my writing career. My son and daughter have been to almost every event, including rehearsals. Although this is wonderful exposure for them, it is a source of great anxiety for me. I’ll never forget last August when the overture to one of my plays began on opening night. Oh God, the smell was unbearable and just too offensive to wait until intermission. So while Act I, Scene I commenced, I was in the bathroom changing my baby’s diaper! I ran back into the theater, with baby in tow, and my little black dress covered in powder!

Perhaps the biggest way that "I am" has affected my work is by the memoir I have written. It is not yet published, as I am seeking representation. (Did you know that every agent in NY is really, really, really busy and has too many clients already, so no one can represent me? And they say the economy is bad! HA! But I digress.) My memoir, “Giving Birth to Mommy: a new mother’s discovery of unconditional love” is a tribute to my first born, a gift that I can one day give to him, when he is old enough to read and comprehend my words. Midway through my memoir, I was perplexed as to how I would end it. At what point should/do I wrap it up? I jotted down a few ideas, but nothing seemed to have the weight that the story deserved. I truly lamented over having this wonderful tribute to my son just fizzle out at the end. And then - lo and behold - God and His Universe just came together! Sitting at my kitchen table, anxiously tapping my fingers, I waited... and waited... and waited, when finally, DINK, the timer went off after three minutes, and the little window on the pee stick revealed a pronounced plus sign - baby number two was on the way. I didn’t scream with excitement; the scream was more of a Eureka! I ran to my memoir, because I knew exactly how it would end. And before Ava girl was even born, my perfect ending emerged. This is yet another way that "I am" has affected my writing. Without being a mom, my son wouldn't have birthed the beginning of my memoir and my daughter, without yet being born, wouldn't have completed the perfect ending!

Although my writing victories are few and far between, I will say that any and all victories came AFTER my children were born, and I have been writing since I’m 9 years old. I guess when my children passed through me at birth, they must have smeared some divine insight that allows me to dig deep into my soul and write about important topics with true meaning. I can be very distracted by my children’s screaming, fighting and pooping, but deep down inside of my soul, I know that THEY are the real reason for my writing. What I sometimes refer to as distractions really aren’t. They are my growth as a human being, as a mother and certainly as a writer. And as I learn more and more from my sometimes-really-annoying children, my writing gets better and better. So who am I? I am the most blessed woman in the world. I am "mom, mommy, MOMmmy, not fair and you're mean," and I kind of really like those titles.

Remembering My Father

2009-09-02T12:53:00.001-07:00

Today I sit and look at the calendar and then at a picture of my father set in a little plastic card displaying the dates of his birth and death, and then I realize, tomorrow is his birthday. He would have been 72 - doesn't really seem that old to me. Cancer saw to it that my dad died just shy of his 70th birthday and just shy of his 40th wedding anniversary. To remember and honor him, I decided to post the Eulogy I wrote and read at his funeral. My father was a good man. I love and miss him.

Eulogy in Memory of my Father, Andrew Amendola.

It is said that one of the hardest things to do after a loved one passes is to clean out his possessions - clear the closets and drawers, donate clothing to the homeless. In all my sorrow, this will probably be the easiest thing for me to do, because there was not one worldly, earthly, possession that my dad owned that he prized. He never had a favorite shirt or chair or jacket. Possessions were not a desire, but a necessity.

Some men spend hours in their driveways, spit-shining their prized cars. Some men clean their shelved trophies every day. Some men scream like mad men if their children or grandchildren so much as put a smudge on their big screen T.V. Well, my father’s car was always a modest, good-in-the-snow vehicle. A car was not a source of pride or a status or any prestige for him. Any thought he had for any car was that it wasn’t a complete lemon - that it worked well enough to take him back and forth to work - his job - a place he went all his life to provide for his family. His car wasn’t a source of pride, but rather a necessity to provide for his family.

My father had not one trophy on his shelf. Nothing material to remind him of what a great soccer player he had once been, or what a number one soccer coach he had been for my brother’s team, or what a great employee he had been all his life, or what an honorable soldier he had been while serving in the United States Army. Instead, what adorned my father’s shelves were pictures - not fancy framed art work, but pictures - sometimes not even in frames. Sometimes they were just propped up against a vase or even haphazardly taped up to the wall. These consisted of hand-drawn pictures from the grandchildren and pictures of family and friends. Family and friends - those were his trophies. The quality of his family and friends was the measure of my father’s success and accomplishments in life.

If you go into my father's house, the first thing some people may notice are the numerous and, at times, very large stains on the carpet. Some people may notice the pen marks, crayon marks, scuff marks, and hand prints on the wall, or even the broken and battered furniture. THAT WAS MY FATHER’S TROPHY!!!!!! All the signs of a lived-in house, all the signs that his grandchildren were in that house with him, almost on a daily basis. Each stain - chocolate milk, ice tea, yogurt, even throw up, spit up, pee pee, poo poo and little snot balls freshly picked and wiped in some corner of the room, - each of those stains represents his grandchildren, HIS TROPHY.

One time I told my dad that he should really paint the walls and replace the carpet, because they were so stained. And he replied, "I don’t care about the condition of the house. The furniture could be ripped and the walls could be filthy, as long as the house is warm in the winter, as long as your mother can cook in the kitchen and as long as we can all sit together at the table. I don’t care what the house looks like."

I stupidly rolled my eyes at the time, but now I realize with the clarity and wisdom of a sage that those marks - those stains, rips, things that others may consider the sign of a sloppy person, - were my dad’s trophies. They are the fruit of his life-long labor. They say, "Look, I worked all my life and raised a beautiful family." They say, " Look, all my children are married and gave me beautiful grandchildren." They say, " Look, my grandchildren are always at their nonno’s house ... always with me."

Not a car, nor a trophy on a shelf, nor a medal, nor a fancy house, but a simple stain in the carpet. That was my father’s legacy.

- I love you, daddy! Your little Adee.

Year 40

2009-07-31T07:43:00.000-07:00

I was invited to the 30th birthday party of a friend and I asked him how it felt to turn 30. He shrugged his shoulders and didn't say anything. I told him that this year, I celebrated my 40th and he asked me what was tougher, the 30th or the 40th. Hands down, the tougher of the two was 30! I remember what I was doing and even what I was wearing on that birthday. On March 11, 1999, I went to work, sporting a dark purple, suade, form-fitting skirt and a lavender sweater. I sat at my desk and bawled my eyes out. I hated leaving my 20s. I hated being 30!

On March 11 of this year, on my 4oth, I woke up energetic. I got my six-year-old son ready for school and then fed my infant. By God, I was happy. How could I be 10 years older, not fit into that purple skirt anymore, have more face lines and be happy? And as I sipped my morning coffee, I contemplated this. The contemplation lasted a few days. And then I figured it out.

I am so much more settled than I was 10 years ago. Ten years ago, I hadn't written 7 plays nor had I written a book, nor had I any children. Ten years ago, there were many of my life's promises that were not fulfilled.

Ten years after crying into my tuna sandwich at my desk I find myself so much more fulfilled with life. I no longer sit at a desk in that office building. I now sit at a desk in a cramped little home office that we had built especially for me, and I write books and plays and I wipe noses and asses and I do laundry and I cook dinner and I go food shopping. I get dozens of rejection letters from publishers and theater companies and dozens of "you've lost" notifications from contests and competitions. I have a few small victories under my belt, but nothing to pay the mortgage.

So why am I happy? Because I'm doing what I love to do. Whether or not I am financially successful at my craft, the fact remains that I am doing it! I am successful in that I'm following my dreams. If I'm told that I only have two days to live, I am happy to say that I could go to my grave never having said, "Could've, would've, should've" I couldn't say that 10 years ago.

I love the lines in my face; I love the larger size skirt I wear; I love my children; and I love my husband more now than I did 10 years ago. I love all my writing rejections and my tiny little royalty paychecks, because they are proof that I'm actually doing what I love to do. 4o is a great age for me, a wonderful time and I embrace it.