Sleep When the Baby Sleeps and Other Nonsensical Writing Advice
by Pichchenda Bao
A renowned poet once gently suggested to me that I would never find the perfect conditions to write so I shouldn’t let that hold me back. I think about that advice often. I know there are writers who fill up the backs of receipts, napkins, prescription pads, the notebook app on their phones, who scribble sitting on the sidelines of playing fields, at the playground, on the subway, who wake up early or stay up late to take advantage of the quiet to write things down, while I stubbornly remain inside my head, spellbound by my own process which veers and shifts like a murmuration of starlings. What actually keeps me from writing things down? My routine or lack thereof? Inertia? What and where is my muse? Am I a vessel being filled or just an open drain? Am I a writer? Does any of it matter? Why do I always find myself here with these unanswerable questions?
It is a miracle whenever a thought makes it onto the page and then into a reader’s life. Maybe this is why writing feels a little bit like magic, as if writers have accessed a secret, esoteric knowledge to get inside your head. It does feel quite mysterious. Maybe this is why we want to know why writers write. And because all writing is a reminder and a record of our existence, maybe we are also wondering why we exist.
Write what you know, they say. But what if you’re not sure you could ever know anything? You know that if you say something too much, it becomes strange in the mouth. Like a slick peach pit stripped of all sweetness. Rough and slippery on the tongue. Hard. Existing now, only to be discarded. What strangeness do I spit out and call art? What art grows out of ordinary life? I once heard a woman writer say there are seasons of work and seasons of life. She was a mother, responding to a question about work-life balance. This was before I had ever conceived of having my own children, or taking my own writing seriously, before I understood that it was usually just the women who were expected to grapple with this balance. I was young and rootless and barely aware of my own potential, but this stuck with me. The way writing could be an anchor, an endeavor that a whole life could revolve around but not be rigidly attached to.
My poetry professor in college once said to me that the cycle goes Farmer, Merchant, Poet. I forget how exactly it came up. Maybe I had expressed how inexplicable I felt to my parents. But as she was saying this, I thought about my family members who were merchants in Cambodia, but were forced to labor in the rice paddies anyway even though they didn’t know how to work the land. Were we farmers then, or merchants? Where in the cycle would we have come to the U.S. with all our belongings packed inside a single plastic bag given out by the UN refugee agency? I think now about how much that professor was trying to see me and how much I had wanted to be seen. I think about representation and permission and who gets to make language for stories and seasons and cycles. I didn’t set out writing to work through generational trauma. I started writing seriously when my first baby was born. I started writing because I didn’t know what else to do. Where am I in the cycle now?
“Sleep when the baby sleeps” actually makes me want to scream, Then who is going to write this essay/poem? I mean, do the dishes; I mean, the laundry; I mean, the grocery shopping; I mean, clean the bathrooms; I mean, make the beds; I mean, all the school pick-ups; I mean, the doctor’s appointments and dentist’s appointments and therapy appointments; I mean, the sports practices and dress rehearsals; I mean, remember who will only eat raw spinach and who needs it sauteed; I mean, find the water bottles and complete pairs of shoes; I mean, pack the first aid kit; I mean, catch them at the bottom of the slide; I mean, make all the magic. Who will name all the ways I am invisible? Somewhere the metaphor is breaking down. And maybe the inside of her own mind is the safest place she can be. And maybe this is why she has not written a book yet.
I’ve heard that when one person stands up, it becomes easier for others to do the same. What about when one person lies down, rests, is unproductive without guilt or apology or plan? What if that person is a writer? What if that writer is a woman? And if I am one woman, telling the truth about my life, which world am I about to break open? Mine or yours?
Pichchenda Bao (she/her) is a Cambodian American poet and writer, infant survivor of the Khmer Rouge regime, daughter of refugees, and feminist stay-at-home mother. She is co-editor of the poetry anthology Braving the Body (Harbor Editions) and serves on the editorial board of Queensbound, an audio poetry project for Queens, NY, and as a story coach for No, You Tell It, a switched-up storytelling show and podcast. Her most recent work has been published by Lily Poetry Review, SWWIM, Cultural Daily and elsewhere. She has received fellowships and awards from Aspen Words, Kundiman, Bethany Arts Community, and Queens Council on the Arts. She lives, writes and raises her three kids in New York City. More at www.pichchendabao.com.
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