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

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

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.

Year 40

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!