muse profile

Jane Porter

A novelist and a single mom, I live in Bellevue Washington, write for two publishers and love being a mom to my two boys. I'm passionate about books, travel, and what impacts women's lives. For more info on me and my books, visit www.janeporter.com ...

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Why Women Need Fiction

Jane Porter

My oldest son dreams of being a WWE wrestler….you know the likes inspired by Hulk Hogan in the 80’s, the Rock in the 90’s and now John Cena, aka ‘The Marine’ and Bautista and The Undertaker now. How do I know so much about wrestling? It’s a popular form of entertainment in my home at the moment and it’s where I pretty much spent my Valentine’s Day this past February…at Seattle Key Arena watching ‘Friday Night Smackdown’ (even though it was a Wednesday).

I don’t really have a problem with wrestling because it looks pretty fake and its colorful. I rather like all the effort that goes into the various stars’ characters and some of the physical feats are real.

But there are times when the wrestling and the boy energy and male version of communication leaves a woman hurting for a little tenderness.

I just returned from a trip down south and anxious to see my boys, I planned on us going out to dinner just for fun and to have a special night. But Jake couldn’t miss Monday-Night-Whatever-Wrestling-Night-It-Is and thought Subway sandwiches to go was special. My younger son just wanted to surf the net looking for good deals on Pokemon toys. I ate my Subway sandwich standing at the kitchen counter trying to pretend that I was having fun.

I wasn’t a very convincing actress.

Sometimes the wrestling, and the noise, and the boys desire to just slam each other around and be loud and aggressive and physical doesn’t well, work for me. Sometimes I want eye contact and…a conversation. Sometimes I want them to listen to me.

Which happens every other week on Tuesday…in even numbered months, and Fridays in odd numbered months.

I love my boys, I do. But sometimes being a mom feels kind of like you’re waiting for someone to come pick you up for a date. You’ve got all these hopes, sometimes high hopes, sometimes little hopes, but you’ve got hopes and you wait.

And you keep waiting because you hope it’s going to be a good date. Even as you know it might not be successful at all.

At least that’s the kind of mom I am.

Hopeful, waiting, trying not to be disappointed but prepared to dash upstairs to my desk and write fiction–and lots of excellent male dialogue–if reality isn’t quite as warm and fulfilling as I’d like