MOTHERING

Writing About Family, Fictional and Otherwise

by Fern Kupfer

I am sitting at the computer when my older stepdaughter comes into theroom and begins reading over my shoulder. "Oh, exploiting us again,Fern?" Megan says good-naturedly. Both she and her sister accept what Ido for a living. This is necessary, because what I do for a living ofteninvolves them by revealing our family life to public scrutiny. Or, atleast the way I choose to portray our family life.

That's something my younger stepdaughter has called to my attention."You make yourself look good in all your columns; you always come outbeing right." This is particularly galling to a 15-year-old with strongopinions of her own. "I'd like to write a column and give my side of thestory," she says.

"Yes," I tell her. "And when you grow up and write your own column,you can do just that."

It is one of the perks of being a writer. Your view. Your angle.Your side of the story. No back talk (except for letters to the editornow and then). The last word.

Often the children read my writing and offer suggestions. Katie, inparticular, has a keen editorial eye. And she is a terrific writerherself. Once I asked her if she would like to be a writer and shewrinkled up her nose as if I were offering her lima beans. "No way," shesaid. "I can't think of a more boring job."

The thing is, the dew is off the rose of this writing business whenthe kids watch you at work. They see you alone in an old sweatsuit atthe computer, twirling your hair until it forms greasy knots. They seeyou eat cold leftovers while you proof your copy. They know the highpoint of your day is when the mail comes. They understand that even ifyou look like Jackie Collins with gold lame and cleavage on a bookjacket, writing, itself, is not glamourous work.

My daughter, Gabi, has always known a writer-mom. And because myoffice was in our house, she didn't clearly distinguish between thetimes when I was a writer and when I was a mom. I remember little girlchatter in the bedroom, Gabi and her friends talking about going to theswimming pool. "Oh," I heard my daughter's voice above the others, "wecan ask my mom to drive us. She's only writing."

Only writing. I suppose allowing myself to be so accessible helpedset that tone. I always stopped what I was doing when she came home fromschool; I was happy to be there so she could talk about her day. (But doyou think Tolstoy's children came into his study after school and askedhim to take them to the mall?)

The children are proud that I'm a writer, often amazed that realpeople in the world read what I write. They couldn't quite believe thatmy picture was once in People magazine -- for them a high-water mark inmy literary career, despite the fact that the picture accompanied aterrible review of my book. And the children seem to be astonished thatmy books appear with regularity in the library.

For me, being a writer-mom means I use real-life examples of familylife (my version) for newspaper columns; it also means listening to kidstalk, watching their mannerisms, trying to capture the essence of childand teen patter in my stories and books.

Once I wrote a short story for Redbook magazine. It was about therelationship between a mother and an unpleasant teenage daughter who wasdescribed as "sullen and tenaciously ungrateful." In the story, thefictional daughter had my own daughter's habit of checking out her bangsin the reflection of the metal toaster oven. (Gabi was in junior highthen and bangs always seemed to be of great concern.) I had left themanuscript of the story on the kitchen counter and when my daughter readit, she was upset. "Writers write what they know," she accused (a tip I had given her to help with an English assignment). "You think I'm likethat awful girl in the story."

Bless that editor at Redbook. She let me add a biographical note atthe end of the story that described the author as "living in Ames, Iowa,with a teenage daughter who was never sullen or tenaciouslyungrateful."

Being a writer-mom means all the ordinary life with children --asking them to take out the trash, to turn off MTV, to practice guitar;teaching them to say thank you, to leave phone messages; telling themnot to slam doors, be fresh, pierce their noses; showing them a bird'snest, a quadratic equation, a picture of yourself when you were theirage; watching from afar as they dance, discover on their own and bloomout of reach -- all the daily detail that duty and love demand, is alsoyour raw material.

Some people only live a life. Writers get to live a life, turn itover in their mind's eye and sometimes -- if the magic works -- createthat life anew.

Fern Kupfer is a novelist and writing professor at Iowa State University. She is a frequent contributor to Working Moms' Internet Refuge.

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