I’m working on a storyline that includes abandonment and indifference towards the main character at the hands of his mother.

It can make for great drama in a plot.

It can make for authentic and heartrending angst.

It can set up any number of credible backstories and pathology when it comes to character motivation.

 It can….

Well it can totally screw with the mind of a writer.

Because when you get into the blood and guts of a relationship that is essentially a betrayal of a sacred and elemental bond—the bond between mother and child, well shit happens.

As much as we hate to admit it, every last one of us has experienced something of that bond (or lack of one) ourselves. Some of us get to ride that ride again when we give birth to our own children, which can create one hell of a feedback loop of pain and confusion when trying to reconcile those two realities. I’m not sure I’ve even scratched the surface in accepting the relationship I have with my own mother. So I ask myself….

 Where does the this Mother fall along the spectrum that ranges from the original Madonna archetype at one end and Snow’s Evil Queen Mother (setting aside the whole step-mommy issue) at the other? Where do I?

Does indifference and neglect put you to the right or left of intentional pain and physical harm? Or can this only be quantified after the fact when an emotional autopsy is performed on us?

 I’m not minimizing this. Not at all. Child abuse is a serious topic. But I’m not speaking of it here—evil monsters that prey upon the weak deserve their own category (and place in hell) and this isn’t my bailiwick when writing.

I’m talking about common, routine, human failings that pop up like roadside weeds after a spring storm.

I’m talking about going through your life, putting one foot in front of the other thinking you’re doing okay and looking back over your shoulder at the end of your journey only to find death and destruction spreading out into infinity from each footprint you’ve left.

I’m talking about the spectrum I discovered in myself while working out this character.

Because as I was writing the outline of the indifference and neglect my main character suffered at the hands of his mother—a woman who eventually walked away from their family when he was in his teens—I started feeling a little uncomfortable. I’ve had those fantasies. The ones about chucking the hassle of the daily grind. About putting my desires first. About starting over.

Alone.

What a relief—to walk away. To find a tiny corner in this world where I could redefine myself, hit ‘reset’, and begin anew. To change the reflection that haunts me each morning as I drag myself into a new day. To bury my mistakes in the past.

As I wrote out this character’s indifference to her child I felt a pang somewhere radiating out from my sternum… I could hear my girl downstairs and I thought back across our day, our week, our month, and our year…

…Well let’s just say that any single episode of “talk to me later” is wholly justifiable in the face of work deadlines and life pressures, until you start stringing those words together like beads on a string. What you’re left with is a necklace of failure long enough to choke yourself on, a thousand times over. I have more than one of those hanging around here after fourteen years, so I’m not sure where I fall on the spectrum of good vs. evil mother.

Probably like most I fall somewhere in the middle—better than some, worse than others—we still sneak out of the house together to watch movies at midnight. I make her waffles at 2:00am when she’s studying for finals. She sends me links to hot guys with cut abs for my book inspirations, and I translate dad-speak into teen-speak and visa versa for her. She comes to me when she’s upset and I’m still aware enough to drop what I’m doing and actually listen to her, providing support and trying very very hard not to look at my phone while she pours her heart out to me.

So maybe if we use our kids as indicators I’d get a few more points towards the good: she’s a rocking Sophomore now, getting all A’s & B’s in her first year. She thinks smoking pot and posting it on instagram is stupid. She wants to study engineering and dance, and she drums for an all-girl rock band.

She’s kind and I like her. And I suspect this has very little to do with me.

She’ll do well in this life whether or not I’m following along picking up clothes and reminding her to check her email. And while I plan on being around to keep poking her back in line…

… There is that itch.

I’ve already dabbled my toes in the surf on Bora Bora under a full moon. I know the smell of the Green Mountains after all the leaves have fallen and the mist and wood smoke lingers like a haze in the Mad Valley. And I can almost taste the green tea I sipped waiting for the sun to crest the horizon, turning the Mojave a luminous gold.

I could do it.

I could just leave and still turn out to be the villain of this piece.

It’s in me.

Is it in you?

COMING JUNE 23rd from Totally Bound: