Nom Nom Nom

My mother’s left eyebrow begins to twitch at the sound of the first “nom.”

I inaugurated “nom noms” to address this condition. “Nom noms” are nominations for prestigious literary awards. I would like several such cakes. The nickname is a pinch of streusel. Calling them “nom noms” is an attempt to administer a noogie to my ego, a delinquent doomed to eternal munchies. “Nom nom” sounds like the snack a cheerleader packed for herself. “Nom nom” sounds a little less starving than “nomination.”

But I miscalculated my syllables. Her eyebrow twitches before I can get to the second-born “nom.” There is no fooling my mother, who addresses the Holy Spirit in a Brooklyn accent. She would steal the hubcaps off every Pushcart if it would save me from going to bed hungry. Instead, she listens, but she cringes.

She is concerned not for my ego but my anguish. This is the woman who dragged home batteries of psychological tests, guinea pigging her only daughter all her way through grad school. She confirmed that I was not a sociopath and absolved my vacant spatial reasoning. She conducted hostage negotiations with my superego. I did not always need to offer the other children the fondant flower first. An inch of id might add some style to my sackcloth. There are few career options for a doctorate in guilt. And, always, “did I do this to you?”

Of course she didn’t, any more than she slavered for prizes. My mother spent far more time with the Holy Spirit than I did.

I reassure her that I came by guilt and greed independently. I am a geriatric millennial, the cohort condemned to splendor. At nine, I daydreamed my interview with Regis and Kathie Lee! on the inevitable occasion of being America’s youngest novelist. At thirty-nine, I wrote blogs for a local animal shelter. I pet my head with the thought that I was the Emily Dickinson of my genre. Some keen editor would midwife my words to a wider audience after my death.

My mother would prefer that I remain alive long enough to enjoy writing again. The Holy Spirit teleprompts her with difficult questions. “Wasn’t it more fun before you knew about nom noms?”

Of course it was. I could write paragraphs on the kinetic pleasures of the word “slaphappy.” My lungs were clear of “lists of topics we DO NOT WANT,” so I doo-wopped about divorce, seventh grade, and the presence of God in the domestic cat. 

And writing. 

In the time before I nommed the fruit, I wrote about writing. I wrote about accompanying myself down the fire pole of exclamation points. I wrote about tying my body to mastheads and asking Brian Doyle and that one deceased Beastie Boy to pray for my labors. I wrote about imaginary friends who have proofread my paragraphs since I was nine, centaurs and wombats who now need retinol and can’t stay up past midnight anymore. I sent jars of these pickles to editors, and they winced, and now I am shy.

“I understand why they are sick of reading about writing.” I defend editors to my mother, but she is not listening. She is in an emergency meeting with the Holy Spirit. I continue talking. “It can be too precious. It can feel like inside baseball. It strokes the straw of the self and pretends it is silk.”

Editors bristle at alliteration, but my mother does not. She is not worried that I think I am adorable. 

“Then tell me.” She is reading celestial cue cards. “Help me understand. Why do you want the nom noms?”

She and her cohost ask the right questions. I know because I am immediately thirsty. “Well, it’s not for the validation, exactly.” 

“I validate the hell out of you.” She is speaking with theological precision. “So, what, then?”

My answer rises from a trench. It is a sort of burp. “Nom noms open doors.”

“To what?”

“Better publications.”

There is mercy in her hesitation. “And then?”

“Better ones.”

“And doors keep opening.” 

“Yes.” I am going down with this ship. “And I will keep running down the hallway.”

“That actually sounds kind of fun. Can I come with you?”

“Of course.” But now the superego has overheard the conversation, and I am doomed. “The whole idea is to reach more people.”

Both of my mother’s eyebrows are twitching, golden commas that usually stop me from throwing down periods too soon. “Reach more people?”

Somewhere Jesus is smacking his forehead. “Yes.” I hear myself as if through an open window. I wonder if I am a small enough mammal to crawl out. “You know I am trying to spill light. Raise the grand total of love. Write things that help in my little stupid way.”

My mother’s eyebrows crash down like chandeliers. “Sweetheart, you do that. If three people read a story and feel less scared, isn’t that enough?”

“Mmm.”

They are ganging up on me now, she and her associate. “If nobody reads it, but writing it gives you life, isn’t that the whole thing?”

I can’t see a way out of this. “I am hungry. I want a prize. I want an enormous cookie with my name in pink icing.”

“That’s honest. That’s honorable.” Is she calling my bluff?

“Yeah?”

“As long as you remember to eat dinner.” She has reclaimed her eyebrows. “And run down the damn hallway anytime you want.”

“Will you come with me?”

“I’ll pick the locks.”